You make me seek out sharp Dixon Ticonderoga pencils
with thick dollops of pink cream on their tops,
to write in the smudged lead;
as words dance across starchy parchment,
smeared by more than the base of my hand.

I want to see the thin, bold lines of black ink
from a satisfactory pen;
loop and curve into the twisting characters of your name.

I want a sharp pencil, and a good pen.
One in each hand;
to clear my mind.