Writing Tools on Holiday
I am pecking out a poem on the latest device.
My pens are relieved and resting in a mug,
a ceramic souvenir I obtained
on a trip to Santa Fe.
No ink will be spilled and they will not be discarded.
The pencils, their equally grateful sisters,
will not be worn down or have their pink bottoms ground
against the errant markings I so frequently make,
careless and random and nondirectional.
The paper, too, is happy,
working on its tan beneath the halogen lamp
I forgot to switch off before I stumbled into bed
with my gadget in my hand.
