Home is Where the Pens Were

She kept a pot

Of pens.

Mostly for simple puzzles that

“Wouldn’t tax her mind too much”

Whilst listening to the tele.

Up too loud.

“It’s just for background, really”.

Half of them didn’t work.

Or maybe half the sentence would emerge

Then just an impression

Of what you hoped to write.

Scratch, I’d go, another in the bin,

“This doesn’t work mum.”

“Well it was working fine. I don’t know what you’ve done to it.”

And then, I’m listing what she needed from the shop.

“Nothing much, the paper and some mi ,

Try this one then, it was fine yesterday,

When the postman came.”

All done, I returned,

But she wasn’t there.

A sentence, incomplete

A husk, a shell remained.

An impression

In her chair, where she’d sat, making cards.

Just background really.

And that pot.

Of pens.

I regret I never told h