Pen clicks thrillingly
as ballpoint emerges, all ferocity and pomp,
Eager to devour a page, or two,
or a hundred, if it isn't stopped.
Transforming thought from ether to fresh ink
with the efficiency of a world war munitions factory.
Its lustrous smooth plastic is painted in imitation
of metal, belying its inexpensive, but not cheap, production.
The vulgar shine of this paint is balanced
by the supple grip of dark rubber, friction
delicately calibrated. Each stroke is a mystery
soon to be uncovered in lustful tryst.