It's those times when I know I should be doing something that ultimately has little importance; that's when I find poetry to be a welcome excuse, a stealer of time for whom I conveniently leave the gate unlatched. Here’s my latest little thief.
In the grass under this bench
lies only the lead-tip end
of a broken pencil.
The eraser end is nowhere to be found.
What happened, I wonder,
to split such an indivisible pair?
Did an angry author force their divorce?
Or was it a mutual breakup?
Or perhaps, the lead had gotten sick
of its partner’s second guessing,
Maybe the lead had finally had enough.
I’ll bet it slammed the door
with its backpack slung across its shoulder
and set off to live a new life –
a life free of the eraser’s constant regret.
I’m sure that somewhere the eraser
is sitting alone, curled up on a wooly patchwork sofa,
longing for the company of its ex –
the pencil lead who is now bounding through
the tall blades of grass beneath this park bench.