No Correction

A form, a date,

wrong, of course.

My hand already moved,

the lead a dark line.

Reached for the end of the pencil,

that stubby yellow thing,

my teeth marks on the wood.

No pink. No give.

Just a flat, chewed space

where the eraser used to be.

Gone.

So the mistake sits there,

unmovable,

a fact now,

in black and white.

You can cross it out,

but the mark remains,

a ghost of what was.