Brittle

I reached inside the kitchen drawer

to find a bit of slack,

to hold the pens together

and keep the ink from rolling back.

The rubber was a ghost of gray.

It didn't stretch or give away.

It snapped into three quiet sticks,

the shortest of some tired tricks.

Now my palm is coated thin

in a dust that looks like salt or skin,

a fine white powder from the dry

dead heart of things that didn't try.