New thin slats at my window will
collect dust that I will ignore and if I die
today, someone else will clean them,
sort my books and coffee cups. I am one
with too many shoes, dishes, frown lines,
too much music, too many old notebooks,
too much ink and paper to outlast me.

Someone may remember what paper matters
and erase my initials from the flyleaf of each book,
too many books, and when memory fails and
my ashes fly in the wind to nestle in hillside soil
no one left will miss me or my many things,
the utile and the futile.