Doornail the Dead Pan
I knew at once
he had no more life.
As clean a concept
as the cut of a knife.
Latent drama,
a turned over chair.
The cap on the table,
the nib sucking air.
This pen did not die
from neglect, going dry.
This pen, my dark friend
was used up ‘til the end.
The stories he told
with hatch-marks so bold.
He lived a creative existence.
Now he lies cold
right on the fold.
I have no more inky assistance.
But ho! Oh no!
I’m loathe to let go.
I know.
I know.
I’ll go to Cheap Joe.
And, instead of a funeral,
or a recycle bin.
I introduce Doornail
to resurrection.
Now we fly
with the ink level high
and I
am able and skilled.
For my partner is driven
by what I have given.
He is risen,
refilled.