Monday, October 16, 2023


 Golf Pencil

I always saved the little pencil 

From a round of golf because 

It reminds me of life:

Very short, no eraser

But a perfect conic missile

Sharpened to hypodermic point 

Such a pleasure to wield, at times,  

Even just to scribble and doodle,

Darken in all the D’s and zeroes

On this governmental form 

With a metallic graphite sheen.

As it wears down we

Begin to ration our language

To aphoristic obliquity:

Love is not the opposite 

Of loneliness it is the fog on the stage

When you’ve forgotten all your lines.

You are either a person perpetually anxious 

About becoming who you think you ought to be

Or the dullard loaf of mystery meat

Who knows exactly who he is and will always be. 

But no matter how abridged it is,

Those pencils never last for long. 

So much remains unsaid and we’ve

Already ground it down to the nub.

I keep writing even when 

The black tip has retracted

Beneath the smudged shuttlecock of wood.

You have to look closely 

To see the desperate ruts

I’ve pressed into the page 


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