The Pen

Do not date someone like this. Ever.

 

You come home and

Grab your pen

The one I'd been writing

With all day

"You'll lose it," you say,

(and you've worried all day)

that I'd misplace this

cylinder of ink and chrome.

 

"I've been writing with it," I say,

to excuse what you perceive

as theft or ill will,

"It writes beautifully."

And the fact is, is that

I'm writing,

Have been for hours in fact

From the first sound of thunder over

The hills

The clattering of birds

Through pink sky

And the eventual, drumming sound

Of rain falling on the

Tar paper roof.

 

I recorded your old man neighbor

Rocking on the porch

Reading the paper

Yelling for his wife, Mary,

Scolding the guy next door

For music blaring

From a too-loud car.

 

I've created your neighborhood

With this pen

Writing about moments

And sounds and breezes

That you've missed today

And will never capture again-

 

But what is it you're so

Worried about? Your pen?

Yes.

Here it is.

I hand it to you definitively,

Hoping the energy I found

Today

Isn't conducted only through it

From the electric sky above,

And watch you nest it

Securely in your shirt pocket,

And walk away,

Greeting the cat.