i’m acutely aware of
the presence of a blue ballpoint pen
on the street in front of the house next door.
it’s been there since we moved in.
each time i see it, the question:
should i pick it up?
but then i remember:
it’s the same pen that’s been
left out in the soggy grey tuesdays,
the muggy sundays,
the breezy, humming friday nights and that
it’s my own mind
that remains hopeful, curious, confused
with a start,
that i already know the answer.