A congested forest of

Slim, silver stems,

Fitted with a hat, neat and tight.

Ready with a click

And willing to write.

Sharp eyes pinch my ribs,

The fate lays frigid on my shoulders –

To sign?

Or not to sign?

A free pen.

“Cool stuff!”

It even has a name – I read aloud:

Opera Garden Hotel, HU.

I wonder where else it has been.

Hey, sure it’s for notes,

For essays, for corrections,

For singing, for adding a tip.

But what about a toy?

Or a souvenir?

Or a prize for a contest?

I’ll settle it – he’s a friend.

He works on my hands.

He works on soggy paper.

He works on fabric, he works on my eraser.

He loves to leave a lasting impression.

I let him twiddle from each finger – one to five.

I gave him a spin, and he flies in a promising loop.

I open my fingers wide to give him a hug,

But I miss him.  An abrupt clatter.  Dismay.

Look from one end,

There’s a pitch-black cavity.

Look at the other, and

There’s a swollen pimple.

This patient’s symptoms look ugly

But what’s the point?

Tips to raise a pet pen:

Cherish its lonely life.

Never leave it behind.

Never insult it.

It is inanimate, yet it is vital to

Give it comfort, like a dear friend.

This naughty guy,

Will never leave me in peace,

I leave it somewhere else

And my head throbs in alarm.

But as I try to suppress the urge.

I find myself in search of him.

What a fool, it’s just one,

But why lose another “one.”

I carefully dissect his body into pieces

On a quest to find its

Secret ingredient to his

Unique clickety-click.

The shaft, the vial of blood-red ink, and

Hmm, that familiar spring!

I squeeze the glimmering trophy

And it leaps with joy,

Zipping away, and poof.

Gone.

One day,

I sit, frustrated and furious.

I smash his perfect, shaved hand of eloquence.

Silence.  Then

Suddenly, he violently begins to

Cry distasteful scarlet tears onto my creased hand.

My old hotel buddy vanished.

Where could he be?  Why would he leave?

I search through binders and books and paper.

He never floats up from the pools of homework.

I turn my back to mourn, but I reconsider.

It’s not that painful, it just strings me for a while.

But nevertheless I cross two fingers,

In hopes, he has been gifted to another caring hand.