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Panegyric: The Pencil



"As though naturally/
Erasures would speak the
language of pencils."
— Howard Nemerov

I hop across the paper on my pointed head,
skipping with my heartbeat's soul of lead.
I'm a somewhat slender fellow,
rounded body shining yellow ...
built to fit two-fingers' thumb, tattoo
like, Tattooer number "1"
Then, when travels tend to wear me down,
exquisitely, in certainty, I sway my top
while inserting me into that spinning slot
to sharpen my lead crown.
And, even though I'm a humble "one",
I have to admit I'm pretty hip-
I come equipped quite fit:
While episodes of errors are emphatically
unacceptable, the totality of my ability in my duality
of purpose as scribe and literary guide
to detect defect, and casually, craftily correct,
is irrefutably respectable!
It's me ! I'm error free !
Just a flip between my skip-
Erased with grace without a trace-
Unsightly blight now gone from sight, and,
much to my delight I write on right ...
Pencil Perfect

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