Dry Spell

I’ve been pumping the handle but it’s spitting out dust. I grind away my eraser until the ferrule rips the empty page. In the back of my mind, fragments pile up in a heap of worthless used parts. Running my hand across every rough surface, every smooth groove, feeling every bump and every gorgeous imperfection; but my heart shrinks like leather in the sun, pulling taut my right hand, rendering it inarticulate. How does a doubter pray for rain?