2B or other

Greg Tome

I lean on sticks
    little regular sticks
           coloured red and black
        in longitudinal stripes
      with dark pointy ends

Pencils bear me up
    2B to 6B 
                 guide my hand
           in sensuous exercise
  gliding across the welcoming embrace
             of generous white paper

I write anything
        complaints       plans
                     nonsense sentences
Sometimes 
         a delicate seedling of thought emerges
           needing to be removed
                      to a safer area
There hopefully to thrive
          mature into a fully formed poem

This yearned-for morning ritual
                       after which
                   my psyche leans back
                looks around 
                           and 
                                 smiles           

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