Is this the business of a pen?
To drunkenly prod, be prodded to papers,
an endless stream of albino acquaintances? The life of a slave child,
briefly met with brothers in arms
only to be torn away from plastic home for a life of forced labor. A sorry fate,
often discarded before its time, before the well is dry and off it goes
(to sleep?) beneath landfill sky. A surer destiny,
a designed purpose, that which all humans lack on this earth, this side of Jesus Christ.
Tell me, oh lord, of the ordained switch from quills to ballpoints.
Did you lament the gossiping gulls, who ‘doth protest too much’?
What is even the business of a gull? What would it make of my drunken pen?
A nest, no doubt.