The Man Who Hated Wasting Paper

I would give him wings

made from the crisp red gold

of fallen leaves,

fold the bark of silver birch

into darts that would pierce

his stingy heart.

I would stitch the scraps 

of notebook squares

he squirreled away

into a foolscape cape

he could soar away in.

Deciphering his notes concerning

how much he had saved,

I would wave aside

all spent accounts,

lined and unlined,

and I would form spells

of remarkable abundance

that allowed him to scrawl

willy nilly over unsullied rolls

of newsprint as big as carpets.

I would have his unwilling hand

writ large over everything,

his heart undeciphered

on the everlasting notebook

above.