I write my poems in pencil,
An eraser close at hand,
An older version of “Delete”
To follow my command.
With one quick rub, or maybe two,
The words just disappear;
A ghostly hint remains beneath,
A first draft souvenir.
I like those subtle tracings
Which remind me, looking back,
How rare it is to nail a thought,
Above all, at first crack.
It’s much the same in life, for though
Apologies are made,
The hurt that caused their utterance
Is just a lighter shade.
For if you look quite carefully,
You’ll get a little taste
Of feelings that were first to flow,
Not totally erased.