In those days,
the plot was only
as sharp
as pointed lead.
HB didn’t stand
for Harcourt Brace—
not yet,
and every yarn
dependent
on a narrow shaft of
wood, a hexagon
swaddling graphite
like the wrap of
a pogo dog ;
my hero
locked in peril
whenever the barb
had lost its bite—
as if the break
of a daring tooth,
one that’s lost its
battle
with peanut
brittle,
the precipice
crumbling beneath
his fading feet, the story
going grey upon the
page, his damsel
snatched by claws
of a hungry griffin,
sketched along the
side so horribly,
both awaiting rescue
by the sharpener
on the wall, its holey
maws of eight, the round
of a rotary
dial, the insertion
a guesser’s game—
botched, like the very first
thrust of sex, at 14
years of age,
or gambling
on the 7
in roulette,
when you've just
turned 21,
its daily
grind of pencil, cranked
into its duty
like a forlorn
Model T, shavings
like the fallen
peels of apples, potatoes,
each one with their
own little tale to
tell.
Andreas Gripp
March 11, 2025
RF Image
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