pencil
there is something satisfying
in the friction
the drag of graphite
across a blue lined page
reassuring, the slightly slower
pace of pencil
translating synaptic surges
into symbols meant
to convey the thing
I was not supposed to say
(erase the worst
of it
the jarring
jagged bits
too painful for
response)
feel the sharp shaved point
soften under it
this pressure to covey
in loops and strokes and dots
all the woulds and shoulds
and swollen knots
of life sharpened and ground
and sharpened again only
to shorten into nubs
(rubber long gone
to
endless hesitant
revision)
I do not toss away
sentimental fool
to keep the spent penny tool
of impermanence
never mind the humility
inherent in the reluctance
to commit to ink
(brush away pink
and gray
lint of things
best not to think)
the world it seems
has no use for either
random longhand thought
or the scratching glide
on rough recycled sheets
analog obsolete profitless things
unlikely to go viral
privacy maintained by
disinterest, not firewall
the 2.5 preferred to the
more common No.2
for a small pleasure
whole generations will not know
the future’s quill
my Ticonderoga
shorter now
I obliged Marthe by picturing her favored 2.5 pencil. The poem is in response to Elizabeth Kaeton's post on her blog, Telling Secrets, on using pencils. If I were on Facebook, I would definitely click "Like" upon reading the poem.
