TICONDEROGA

TICONDEROGA

Bite marks first—
the old Ticonderoga Number Two
carried them still,
a nub of shedding pink for an eraser,
a dull lead point.

I picked it up
and it fit comfortably
in my hand,
the gouged body
perfectly matching my bite,
the flaking yellow paint
and varnish overcoat
that needed
to be spit out
with every crunch—
its wood
still on my tongue.

Then
I broke it
cleanly in the middle.