Essay on a Black Ink Pen
I don’t have to believe in anything. I’m sitting at a naked table, water boils in a red sauce pan, and soon I’ll go
into my next life without knowing.
It’s always soon, there isn’t
hardly time to scribble
with this beautiful ink pen.
I have to lead my father’s horses back
to their stalls,
I have to hold commerce’s hand and cross
between four lanes of bright red trolleys.
The palms grow beautifully in the median,
the snow cuts the mother’s face,
the parts of it she can’t hide
between her hat and scarf.
All the while I’d like to make a little noise
with you, black ink pen.
There’s so little time, but there’s plenty of time
to get into a little trouble.
I’d just like to say that it hurts to live
in this roller chair,
with my chin in my hand
and a shifting earth beneath me.
My head’s a purple stain
finding its Jesus-shape
in each movement
of your emptying,
dear black ink pen.
About the Author: Christopher Prewitt adores animals, music, and lights. His work has appeared in Vinyl Poetry, Ghost Ocean Magazine, and many others.