Poem: Scraps

You can’t compartmentalize life.
Notes about this and that, deep and shallow,
are written on the back of scraps.
Scraps of lists of chores and work
and groceries and meetings.
A vast pile of paper,
with the ceiling fan stirring up on occasion and causing them
to flitter around the office at intervals when your moving pen
is not holding them down to the desk.
Better write on your hand so you don’t forget.
My left is already thick with ink.
Who will write on my right?