His Pencil by Raymond A. Foss

Sitting down, the kitchen table
late lunch, lot going on
His pencil, well, not exactly,
sitting there on the table.

Such a vivid image,
a rich visual memory
a Ticonderoga 2 5/10, medium
that same yellow and green,
same script of the lettering
But this was different than his.

His pencils, Ticonderoga 3, hard.
Always sharpened,
the sharpener screwed to the desk,
always, seemingly, full length,
a full, untrammeled, pink eraser
somehow they always were so,
or so my memory is, clear,
even forty some years on

His pencil, his precision,
desk always neat,
his care for details
a rich flood of the thoughts of him
while sitting down
for a moment of peace, lunch

by Raymond A. Foss

Other poems by 'Raymond A. Foss'

Evidentiary Equipoise

Costs not Expenses

First Day

Hey Mountain

The Beginning of Wisdom

A Prayer for Wisdom

A Solitary Sentry

Yearning to Bloom


A New Shepherd

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