A Moment

A Moment

This pen has too much ink.
My O's are starting to sink
into themselves like Einstein's black holes,
sucking the surrounding letters into their abyss
as if I didn't need those consonants.

The P's have decided to assume the role
of courtroom gavels, pounding the page
      as if I'd miss
their purpose if they didn't make
a soggy spot somewhere along the line.

It would all be fine
if quantity of ink
and quality of poem
were directly proportional,
    but most of the time
there's something I want to say
I cannot find a working pen
or I find a pen like this, and then
I find I'm left to watch and wonder at the way
that ink and paper react
when too much of one is in contact
with the other;
but maybe learning to simply watch and wonder
at the winsome ways the world works
is truer poetry than any line that I could write.