PEN

I can't be in a meeting without a pen.
And the person sitting next to me always borrows it.
Just for a minute of course.
And never returns it.
This drives me crazy.
Being without a pen is like being naked.
Helpless.
To me, it's worse than kicking caffeine.
Suppose I have a really good idea
while some pompous but important idiot
is rambling on in the front of the room?
Or, on a less noble but equally important level,
suppose I happen to remember that I promised
to call my friend Elma this afternoon?
Or I think of something I need to pick up
at the market on the way home?
I'm forced to choose between
paying attention to the idiot on the chance
I may later be required to have heard something,
in which case I risk forgetting my idea.
Or I can choose to hold onto my idea,
stubbornly shutting out all distractions —
like the proposed new marketing strategy
which I will shortly be required
to comment upon.
No pen.
I'm lost.
While I pretend to pay attention,
my hands fumble desperately
around the bottom of my pocketbook.
My eyes sweep the conference table
in search of a writing implement on the loose.
My neighbor meanwhile sits happily beside me,
my pen poised upon his writing pad.
If I ask for my pen back, I'm being petty.
He'd never understand
how truly awful I feel without my pen.
Say, perhaps I ought to write down these thoughts.
Now where the hell is a pen?


© Ellen Azorin