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April 1 2020

I have a drawer

where pencils collect,

an odd assortment, long and short.

Most are badly chewed;

teeth-marks, where the glossy paint is broken

deep impressions

in thin soft wood.

Octagonal pencils

like the kind we used in school.

And cylindrical ones

that all roll to the back of the drawer

as I yank it out.

The rubbers

are small hard nubs.

Once, they were soft and pink and pliable,

but over time

turned stiff and dry.

I can't recall

ever buying one.

Perhaps they've arrived

from the land of lost socks.

Or were pocketed, absentmindedly.

Or are somehow reproducing

in that dark desk drawer,

a bacchanal of pencils

when left to themselves.

Disposable, and given out free

a pencil gets no respect.

But what a brilliant device

that never blots the page

or runs out of ink

or requires any power.

And how satisfying

when sharpened just right,

a perfect point

not thin enough to break

yet not too blunt.

Write

and then erase.

My simple mistakes deleted

private thoughts expunged.

The greyish smudge

where I rubbed something out.

Or tearing through the page

where I couldn't have been quicker,

confessed too soon, too much.