Hardness Scale

I’m pressing too hard on the dotted line,

trying to carve my name into the wood.

The leasing agent says I’m doing fine,

but I’d leave the whole thing if I could.

The cedar pencil snaps its brittle core

and leaves a jagged, charcoal-colored tooth.

I’ve signed for less and less of life before,

chasing a smaller, more manageable truth.

Now there’s a silver-gray smear on my palm

that won’t come off with a lathery scrub.

It’s the residue of a forced and heavy calm,

the kind that leaves a stain when you rub.