F.B.

The gray sky can’t tell
That I picked up the wrong pen
That the feeling of it against the paper
Is different, it slides rather than scratches
The same color but slightly less fine
Than the other, It doesn’t change my vocabulary or alter
What thoughts are shared, for a pen is just
A tool, just a pen and yet I’m writing
About it because it’s the first thing that
Struck me as I wrote the date on the page…

Do others who write have the same
Routines, a need for the tools to be the
Common link, the place to be the same?
For me, the paper doesn’t matter, the
Place always changes, but the pen
Has been the same for a very long time.

I carry one with me everywhere I go
And even when they get lost in the
Communal areas of the home, they
Are mine; my darling dislikes them
And will search the house for another,
Even if one is crying to be used from the coffee table.

As I was writing the last passage
The pen I am using, the wrong pen, began
To drop out and bleed and make it necessary
to draw certain letters differently. It feels as if
I was using a pencil with wax on the tip, a melted crayon
Or a dying Sharpie, foreign, fat, uncomfortable.

Perhaps it can change my penmanship or my vocabulary
And it’s beginning to change my thoughts…
What am I thinking?
Time to go get the other pen.

Ahh… much better. This one fits my fingers and writes
Just fine. Actually the other one was a fine,
this one is a micro.
Now, what was I going to write?