Found a pencil on the table

Found a pencil on the table,

left behind, no longer able

to draw a line or write a name.

It held a story, just the same.

Chewed end, the wood gnawed through,

a habit someone saw fit to do.

And down the shaft, a dark, deep stain,

from thumb and finger, again and again.

A groove worn in, where hand had pressed,

a right-handed grip, no need to guess.

The graphite smears, a silver-black,

a little print that won't come back.

Another person's working day,

left on the wood, then walked away.