poem

 Golf PencilI always saved the little pencil From a round of golf because It reminds me of life:Very short, no eraserBut a perfect conic missileSharpened to hypodermic point Such a pleasure to wield, at times,  Even just to scribble and doodle,Darken in all the D ’s and zeroesOn this governmental form With a metallic graphite sheen.As it wears down weBegin to ration our languageTo aphoristic obliquity:Love is not the opposite Of loneliness it is the fog on the stageWhen you ’ve forgotten all your lines.You are either a person perpetually anxious About becoming who you think you ought to beOr the dullard loaf of mystery meatWho knows exactly who he is and will always be. But no matter how abridged it is,Those pencils never last for long. So much remains unsaid and we ’veAlready ground it down to the nub.I keep writing even when The black tip has retractedBeneath the smudged shuttlecock of wood.You have to look closely To see the desperate rutsI ’ve pressed into the page 10/16/23

Source: Buckeye Surgeon - October 16, 2023 Category: Surgery Authors: Jeffrey Parks MD FACS Source Type: blogs