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.
It decides to construct an alphabet.
-some call them words,
meet in deep watery privacy
and build stories
history is too small
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.
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.