Ode to my ballpoint pen Jean Fineberg

Ode to my ballpoint pen

You willingly accept my loving grip by hand or mouth or perched behind an ear, or pocketed with your convenient clip. Why must you, though, so often disappear?

There have been many others, I’ll admit –a piece of chalk, a felt-tipped pen or pencil. Though you and I are such a perfect fit, I wish your spring were not so temperamental.

Your plastic skin, resistant to abuse, an object d’art for such a lowly price. Compliantly, you offer of your juice, although it’s leaked or stuttered once or twice.

I’ll mourn you when your lifeblood starts to thin but find my consolation with your twin.