From my Notebook III

This poem is dedicated to the designers of the Uniball Vision Micro. Makers of my favorite pen.
And that is a photo taken of me right before I sit down to write.

Specifics

My pen is running out.
I’m a man needing only few particulars.
The sea rhythms of traffic to write by.
Maybe a right cut for how my shirt spreads
across my chest and tucks beneath my arms.
Something heavy enough to wrestle my cowlicks.
I like a proper depth of cereal bowl.
There’s a certain day in fall that feels like a tipping point,
the end of a great inhaling breath.
I need to be outside that day.
I like my sushi spicy. I like my sandwich cold.
One foot must hang from the covers
for optimal temperature equilibrium.
When she looks at me, it’s one way that I need,
that surprises me like summer lightning.
And there’s maybe a whole half an hour
between 3 am and 4 am when my city finally
shuts its eyes and I walk in its dream.
But this pen, this one brand, one make, that I buy
and always carry, wearing distress into jean pockets
has little froth left for my page.
So I’ll make this quick.
This familiarity, like navigating my house in the dark,
this pen is so invisible in my clutch
it became my unknown finger,
writing on the wall before I roused the guards.