I was looking for a screwdriver to fix the latch

I was looking for a screwdriver to fix the latch,

but I found this yellow pencil in the drawer instead.

It’s buried under buttons and a lonely match,

with a flat eraser and a blunt, unsharpened lead.

Near the metal ferrule, the wood is chewed and raw,

where your canine teeth dug in during the test.

A map of a panic that nobody else ever saw,

a jagged little rhythm you couldn't put to rest.

I remember the way you used to tap the desk,

waiting for a grade or a door to finally swing.

Now it’s just a relic, strange and statuesque,

the quiet, wooden bones of a very old thing.