Pen

My fountain pen is sometimes a snout, 

sniffing paper, poking here and there,

leaving a trail of random thoughts 

with quick trips down a rabbit hole.

Its discoveries are kept secret from me 

despite my hand’s guidance.  

There is persistent resistance

from it, like teenage angst.

When I want to write some thoughts 

about the nine different colors on my walls

(and darned if I know which to choose), 

or to wonder if I am as old as I really am

(just yesterday I was ten or fourteen or something),

I am harassed with irritating, ill-tempered penmanship 

and drawings of geometrics that appear in the margins.

My revenge is to recap the rebellious snout,

to let it lie on the pad in darkness,

expecting better behaviors

the next time it’s freed

from its solitary 

confinement.

From: Getting There

Unpub. MS p. 10