Stress Test

The desk drawer is a shallow grave

for things that don’t work anymore.

I grab a yellow pencil, No. 2,

and find the marks of a quiet war.

The wood is chewed into jagged peaks,

a map of a Tuesday spent waiting for news.

The lead is snapped and the rubber is gone,

leaving behind only cedar and blues.

I run my thumb over the nervous scars,

the deep, frantic divots of a molar's grip.

They left their panic behind in the paint,

a jagged reminder of a sinking ship.