thinking of a number two pencil
the golden yellow of a number two pencil shakes her head at me
She has a reddish eraser on her end, her point is dull and black
The arrow beneath her point is flesh colored, my skin tone
She has been chewed on; but it was not me; my teeth are no longer sharp
I remember taking her out of my dog’s mouth yesterday.
Surely all those dog germs are dried now.
I pick her up and begin to write, since this is what I do.
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