I never seem to lose the crappy pens,
those cheap plastic ballpoints with flimsy caps
or the clickers that jam with pocket lint.
Those pens, the unwanted, are everywhere.
Now, the pens I like, the magnificent
pens with thick, dark ink and confident lines
that rest in that defining joint, as if
they were always meant to be there. Those pens,
who respond to the slightest touch, who dance
across the page, at first pulled, then pulling.
Ideas pour from those pens. The hand follows,
struggles to keep up with a pen whose thoughts
are now its own. Those pens who command words,
who create worlds. To whom the writer is
merely a mechanisms, whose hand is
just a crook for the pen to settle in
while it creates the universe. Those pens,
I always seem to lose those pen.