Sitting down, the
kitchen table
late lunch, lot
going on
the busyness of
life present.
His pencil, well,
not exactly,
sitting there on
the table
a cascade of
memory.
Such a vivid
image,
a rich visual
memory
a Ticonderoga 2
5/10, medium
that same yellow
and green,
same script of the
lettering
But this was
different than his.
His pencils,
Ticonderoga No. 3, (hard/fine).
Always sharpened, ready
for use,
the sharpener
screwed to the desk,
each pencil, always,
seemingly, full length,
a full,
untrammeled, pink eraser
somehow they
always were so,
or so my memory
is, clear,
even forty some
years on
His pencil, his
precision,
his desk always
neat,
his care for
details
no clutter that I
can remember
a rich flood of
the thoughts of him
while sitting down
for a moment of
peace, lunch
at the kitchen
table.
----
edited June 28, 2014
His Pencil – v2
February 7, 2009
His Pencil
(only a
Ticonderoga No. 3)
Dixon
Ticonderoga Pencils
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poems are copyrighted by Raymond A. Foss, 2000, 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004, 2005,
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Contact me at Ray
Foss for usage. See all 30,790+ of my poems at www.raymondafoss.blogspot.com
Poetry Where You Live.
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