-- Pen that Smells like Ink

This is Part IV of a series. See Parts I, II, III, V, & VI. 

I’ve always liked ballet

            Bars as straight as lasers

                        A backbone

                                    And the weaving

                        In and out

            Out and about

It reminds me

            Of paper, college ruled

                        Lines not dark enough to overpower

                                    Crisp, clean, waiting

                                                For weaving. For a dance

 Between lovers, unrequited

                        I get a high, a thrill of waiting

            At the tip of a rollercoaster

                        Have you followed the feet of a dancer?

                                    Tracing ribbons into infinity

                                                Like so, everyday.

                                                            Butter on a heated skillet

                                                                        Tracing letters on a lover’s back

                                                                                    Waft of pungence

 Of dusty attics, yellowed pages,

 Leather, detergent, incense. 
 Weaving through my ballet bars.

                                    Evidence of my love.

                                               

--Pen that smells like ink

-- Book that Smells like Time

This is Part II of a series. See Parts I, III, IV, V, & VI. 

Waterstained into wavy pages.

Layers, like the rings of a tree

And dead, usually.

And time.

March 23, 1956, Page 34

“O that this too solid flesh would melt”

Thumb, larger than average, rested

2 inches from the top

Barely touching

Pause.

December 17, 1967, Page 68

“Words. Words. Words.”

Wedged within worn pages

Pencil with an over-used eraser

An unstrategic scribbler, no doubt.

April 2, 1978, Page 83

“But I am pigeon livered and lack gall”

A ticket, red with 2 ridges, hastily ripped

Commissioned officers’ mess open

Camp LeJeune.

June 17, 1994, Page 128.

“My thoughts be bloody or be nothing worth”

Smear of jam, quickly swiped off,

Licked off freshly manicured fingers.

2 cm from a jotted phone number.

Pages in danger of tearing

Apart. Fluttering at the seams

At every bend. Fragile.

Strengthened by time.

Hamlet.

                                                                    --  Book that smells like time