A Good Pen Died
Today a good pen died.
For that good pen I cried,
removed cartridge from casing and sighed—
I cannot find its equal to stand by my side.
Straight!
with a cold, metallic tip,
purple ink so dark it houses miles of midnight,
so smooth, the Godiva in my freezer is jealous.
The grip was the most perfect part:
soft, but not squishy,
hard, but not coarse.
A rack of new pens I eyed,
and one I tried
but I could not take it in stride.
It’s different but it’s too late and it hurts to admit I don’t have control, but I do, but I don’t, but I do, but I don’t fucking know anymore because my whole damn world has gone to Hell with the damn pen because my journal is now the wrong purple and now there are two and it’s wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, so fucking wrong, wrong to the twenty-seventh power because I can’t find a replacement cartridge or even another purple Flight pen…But if I could, would it be right?
This compulsive routine has been pried
from my fingers, and my perfect ink has dried.
The color aside,
of that flow of both my pen and of my existence I am denied.
I held it again, just for a moment,
and everything was right.
Then I saw the missing nib…
I will try, try, try to let it slide—
but that good pen’s death has left a hole inside.
