Duct tape

It holds the page together,
makes my pen a one-piece
and yet when I write
the day becomes scattered
between lines, scrawled
to the edges, unstuck
and dangerously close
to the graffiti decorating
the wall under the bridge
where empty needles lay.
If it weren't for the tape
torn white remnants would blow
down the street, sweep
up to the city, mache
the tallest building
with pieces of poetry.
If it weren't for the tape
my words would be
singularly spoilt.