Model ‘O’

They say if you can’t find it online, it doesn’t exist
So I write this poem
With a Faber-Castell graphite pencil
From the finger joint box with brass hinges
That for forty years has stored bundles of lead pencils
Cobalt blue, tobacco brown, lipstick red
(But used to hold a Desoutter Air Grinder, Model ‘O’)
And was passed from my grandfather—to my mother—to me
Much like this poem is now passed on
With a note on how the shavings
Curling from the slot of the pencil sharpener
Had the clean, sweet smell of everything
We at one time or another
Promised ourselves not to forget.

  1. #1 by michaelashleypoetry on January 18, 2012 - 12:06 pm

    Nice one – enjoyed this!
    Great work

  2. #2 by Owen Ekman on January 18, 2012 - 12:34 pm

    Each of your poems opens a box releasing melancholia; which, as you know me, is not a bad thing.

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