A river flows through this pen.

Dull, plasticky, dog-chewed, a dirty shade of gray.

It is so ordinary in appearance,

one might say

it could be missed

as one does the pole star

on a typical night.

And then.

It decides to construct an alphabet.

These constellations

-some call them words,

meet in deep watery privacy

and build stories

history is too small

to record.

Yet.

The pen remembers.

The ties and lies

of them that we loved

and them that we lost.

The consumed stale bread,

the overflowing bins of the well fed.

The smell of earth drenched in rain,

the puzzled look of parting- was it pain? 

The wild laughter of the seventy year old man

hugging the son he thought were dead.

That exact point

when the plot changed.

The dull, plasticky pen

knows some truths.

At times,

persons’ plunge down with a flame.

Perhaps, to sift

these truths in the river bed.

The other day, brother,

you got a letter.

It came from this pen.

Strangely, you asked for an email.