My pen takes on a life of its
own in casual pirouettes
across the page. It
never pauses to look in the
mirror or to shine its
shoes. It swirls in loop de
loops, cursively swinging
this way and that, gliding into
a John Hancock k or a
Ben Franklin F. Spilling
its trail of blue in ballpoint
doodles across history, it bows
to the immortals and their
stories written on papyrus in
ox blood. Inscribing caresses,
it glides into recesses and
curves, exploring with gentle
determination the next idea
that beckons, an advance
promising adventure, when,
a distraction freezes the flow
of ink as a sweet tasty musk
fills the air with yearning,
reaches a crescendo just as an
idea yields to the ink in soft
waves of rapture. The pen stops.
Cookies have arrived.
