Lost Pencils

Phyllis pretends she's not with me when I discover a pencil lying on the sidewalk. She knows I can't resist. I'll simply have to pause, pick it up and put it in my pocket.

I've learned not to do that with pens. Sometimes they leak.

But pencils?

There's something safe, reassuring about a pencil. Even the most chewed up, stubbiest, disreputable looking pencil has the potential of a few more words, of writing a few lines, perhaps, that could someday turn into something big ... maybe a poem.

Here's one now:

LOST PENCILS

I find them during my walks

past schools, lying there, poor,

fallen things, pointing forlornly

to some vague destination.

Many bear the jagged markings

from anxious scholars' teeth,

some have been sharpened

to the point of extinction,

some are broken, and might not

write again, without my timely

arrival to bring them home.

Handling each with the care

one would accord a fallen bird,

I slide it into the warmth

of an inner pocket to keep

it safe, for this could be

the one I've always needed,

the one with something to say

that I really need to hear.

© 2000

(originally published in Midwest Poetry Review)

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Today's word: potential