The Ferrule

The numbers don't add up to what I need,

a deficit I planted like a seed.

I flipped the pencil over for the fix,

to scrub away the eight and make a six.

The rubber was a nub, a dried-out ghost,

the part of the tool that I needed most.

Instead, the metal ferrule bit the page

with all the grinding heat of a small rage.

It tore a ragged flap, a grey-streaked sore,

and left the graphite darker than before.

The smell of cedar wood and leaden dust

is all I have to settle for, and trust.