Fountain Pen

Nib on paper whispers
With movement of my hand
Ink left behind to pool
Along my words then dry
Story unfolding fast
Faster than I can write
Story forming better—
Then comes dry-formed scratches
I sigh as ink runs out

Paper towels and faucet
I fill the reservoir
Shake fast and shake it hard
Inject glass of water
Like spooked and fleeing squid
Then disassemble pen
Gold nib and feed and cap
Scuffs from pocket travel
All left to soak a while

Gently I assemble
All but my hands are clean
Boxes of ink jars clink
This is the hardest part
Green and black and purple
Red, brown, and autumn orange
I love them equally
But one catches my eye
Royal blue speaks to me

Dipped below the ink line
Rush of pressured vacuum
A sudden flash of ink
Pen weighted in my grip
Back to starving story
Nib on paper whispers
With movement of my hand
Story unfolding fast
Faster than I can write