Committed

I needed a pen. What I found

was a pencil with nothing at the top —

the eraser gone down to a brown

metal ring, no way to stop

whatever gets written. Fine.

I wrote the number from the voicemail.

Pressed too hard. The graphite line

went through the paper like a nail

into the counter. Permanent.

The number shining there in gray.

No eraser. No amendment.

I put the pencil away.

The message is still in my phone.

I've played it twice. I haven't called.

The number's in the wood. Alone

in the kitchen, slightly appalled

at how I always press too hard.

At how there's never anything to erase with.