An Inky Tribute To A Dying Pen
Milk, flour, eggs, popcorn. I write a list.
Groceries on the back of recycled
paper. Last month’s calendar page, writing
on the back of December – when Christmas
held the days together with plans and gifts
and food, and then the pen skips blue to white
lines of partial words, ink drying, stutters
with dying words, and I wonder if pens
have limited numbers of words in them.
Maybe two thousand, or if it’s really
expensive maybe two billion. And it
refuses to write parsnips, so I ass-
ume my pen would rather forget parsnips.
And then I realise that this isn’t
my pen. I’ve never seen this pen before.
Someone must have used up all but the last
four words, and left it in my care to mourn
over – dispose of in a civilised,
sensitive manner, and so I toss it
in the bin, and look for another one
with more words left in its inky barrel.