The pen lazes about,
thinking
it’s a minor character.
It agrees to be borrowed,
chewed, misplaced,
forgotten in a drawer
with expired batteries
and a single paperclip
that has lost its shape.
The pen does not announce itself.
It is not forged.
It is assembled.
Plastic barrel.
Ink persuaded to flow in one direction.
It watches other tools
take the credit.
The shovel, for example,
returning from the field
with dirt to prove it was needed.
The brush,
still wet,
still dramatic.
The pen keeps quiet.
Between finger and thumb
it waits for pressure,
not strength.
Pressure will do.
It does not dig.
That would be too much to claim.
It scratches.
Again.
Again.
A thin disturbance
on the surface of things.
Strangely, the surface remembers.
The pen does not decide
where it will end up.
It is surprised to find itself
quoted,
misunderstood,
folded into pockets with muted shades of lint.
Set aside,
it enters ongoing business,
love stories,
and napkin dreams,
still damp at the edges.
If it resembles a spear,
this is an accident of geometry.
A narrowing.
A choice to point
rather than spread.
At the end of the sentence,
it returns to stillness,
yawning,
innocent as ever.
It will deny everything.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2026
Author: Jill Szoo Wilson
I am captivated by beauty, questions that dig to the center of things, and people who tell the truth about the human experience.
View all posts by Jill Szoo Wilson
Necessary Whispers 