I am writing this thank you with the pen
    you sent me for my birthday. It is a nice,
    new pen. It glides so smoothly, and the ink
    does not run. As people walk by, I see them
    eye my new pen, its sleek, black curves
    like a woman's thigh. I hear a wife remark
    to her husband, "how gratuitous." A young
    boy gasps with wonder at how smoothly
    my pen surfs the page, riding wave after thin
    blue wave and never once dropping
    from exhaustion. I've grown confident
    with this pen, sure that if I make this line
    another will follow. That I need only
    be a passenger on a cross continental train
    ride over the slopes and plains of this great
    land, or any great land for that matter,
    is how I feel when in long embrace
    with my illustrious new pen. These people
    admiring my pen are my fellow passengers,
    and it is for them I demonstrate how adept
    I am at twirling my new pen around my thumb.
    "Balance" I say and smile. They smile back.
    I can tell what they are thinking-that no man
    can handle a pen quite like him, and that no
    pen is as gazelle-like as that one.

    Surely they know such a relationship as ours,
    dear pen, is meant to go the distance. But surely
    we know that once you run out of ink, I will
    throw you away. That is, if I do not lose
    you first, or carelessly loan you to someone
    and forget to have you returned. There are
    countless scenarios that could take place
    before it ever came down to throwing
    you away. We could count them, effervescent
    pen, but they are, as you have written countless.
    And doubtless, it would be an exhausting task.
    But I do not plan to lose you, oh no, lose you
    I will not, for my fingers are firmly wrapped
    around you, dear pen, with whom I write this vow.

 Copyright © Tom Dvorske, 2001.  All Rights Reserved.