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In the circle of my desk
Bounded by books, my pencils
Are the breastwork staffed up in
Potential glory, and so patiently
Go blunt with use (or disuse)
And their pink fleshy tops
Bristle over the years as a
Sort of punishment. Therefore
In gross retaliation I
Often refuse to use this one or
That in adherence to
Strict discipline.
Pens, on the other hand are the infants
As they need filling
And wiping and emptying, and cleaning
They pour their lives upon the sheets
And bleed into one's pocket, and are damned
Despite their armor and their screw-on tops
And are more trouble than they are worth
But sit in silver-chased clip dreams
To my dismay and delight—
Sharpening pencils violently
Shortens their lives, and no talking
To them helps. Soldiers they,
Used to the hardship of whetting
And gearing up for long stands, scowling,
Yellowjacketed, in their cups.
2.11.98
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