I lift my fountain pen’s nib to the light of a bulb, preparing to polish.
Soaked from its cleaning, the metal shines smooth.
I look at the work it was used on.
Steel, or gold—which have I made?
My thoughts, on paper.
Had I taken the time to polish them, too?
Or has eighteen-carat Pelikan rapidity crippled me?
No, no…my nib was sharp, and its ideas sharper.
These ideas—have I scratched out steel, or glided out gold?
Across the table. Ballpoints there.
Next to that busywork that I just wanted out of the way.
My hand, flying here and there with the narrow grip—
No discipline in being pragmat-BIC.
May I never steel from gold.
Plucked from pondering by liquid on my hand.
Brown ink cascading, natural thought flowing—
The nib is on my palm. Its engraved sparkle catches
The eye, the spark of inspiration and knowledge.
This fountain of intellectual gold…Steel, where is your sting?
Ornate and ethereal, yet strong enough to forever
Change my legacy. He who knows what I wrote,
Will know me. I have to act like Midas, now.
Clinging to my cross of gold—steel is not an option.
This nib—by bending to my slant,
Taking away from itself, adding to my own work.
This nib—at my command, two roads. My choice.
This power—do I use it to make steel, or gold?
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