Never wrote a single line in ink, all
graphite lyricism, swabbed by constant indecisive eraser smudges.
Dixons, Ticonderogas–the works–
torturing a pencil until it was shorter than my pinky finger,
burdensome, my forearm earning its exercise from hours
of writing and mindless music in the background.
Ticonderogas, however, were the best, always one in the single
helix spine of my notebook. When the eraser f!attens,
sparse of any more use, I would sharpen and remove
its green-metallic carapace, extending its lifespan surgically.
Although pencil lead tends to fade with every closing of covers,
I enjoy knowing that however old the words become,
I’ll still be able to read my sloppy handwriting,
and know its age is not finished.