The Sharpener

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

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