I found it in a zippered pocket

I found it in a zippered pocket

of a box from two moves back—

yellow pencil, the ferrule's socket

bare, the eraser gnawed to black

metal, rust along the collar.

Graphite tip gone dull.

I held it over the bag. A dollar

says it was mine. Some full

afternoon pressing through a sentence,

eraser going first, then gone,

and just kept writing. No repentance

in the page. Just on.

I put it in the trash.

Went to the next box.

Came back. Took it out. The rash

economy of it. The knocks

it's taken — two moves now.

I set it on the windowsill.

Don't know what I'm holding. How

it ended up with me. Still

there. Still.