THANK YOU PEN

I am writing this thank you with the pen
you sent me for my birthday. It is a nice,
new pen. It glides so smoothly, and the ink
does not run. As people walk by, I see them
eye my new pen, its sleek, black curves
like a woman's thigh. I hear a wife remark
to her husband, "how gratuitous." A young
boy gasps with wonder at how smoothly
my pen surfs the page, riding wave after thin
blue wave and never once dropping
from exhaustion. I've grown confident
with this pen, sure that if I make this line
another will follow. That I need only
be a passenger on a cross continental train
ride over the slopes and plains of this great
land, or any great land for that matter,
is how I feel when in long embrace
with my illustrious new pen. These people
admiring my pen are my fellow passengers,
and it is for them I demonstrate how adept
I am at twirling my new pen around my thumb.
"Balance" I say and smile. They smile back.
I can tell what they are thinking-that no man
can handle a pen quite like him, and that no
pen is as gazelle-like as that one.

Surely they know such a relationship as ours,
dear pen, is meant to go the distance. But surely
we know that once you run out of ink, I will
throw you away. That is, if I do not lose
you first, or carelessly loan you to someone
and forget to have you returned. There are
countless scenarios that could take place
before it ever came down to throwing
you away. We could count them, effervescent
pen, but they are, as you have written countless.
And doubtless, it would be an exhausting task.
But I do not plan to lose you, oh no, lose you
I will not, for my fingers are firmly wrapped
around you, dear pen, with whom I write this vow.

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