My Pen

I lost my pen.
It was crammed
beneath Dostoevsky, Twain,
the Bible,
and all those notes I kept on Plato.
I don’t know
how it got there.
I try to keep a free hand
when reading -
Maybe I got caught up
turning pages
and lost my train of thought

That would explain the strange dreams
And random quotations
I hardly understand
That keep filling my mind
At inopportune times
Like when I’m eating dinner
With the girl I love

I’m not sure how
The books didn’t topple over
At the imbalance of my pen
Or how all those ages
Of wisdom and folly
Didn’t squeeze the ink out
Onto my table
With the crumbs of cake,
I am that clumsy.

My thought has kind of come back
But I’m not sure
Where it left me,
On the verge
Of throwing the world on end,
Or reaching for my pen.
It still writes
Though I wonder
If it isn’t a lighter shade of black