A glance, averted, catches light,
Be-shrouded by a subtle cuff.
Surveillance draws attention
To a missing stylish touch:
The eye can’t disregard – a pocket
Missing from the formal frame.
Net negative is not the space.
Its capability remains in place.
Discrepancy grabs focus and the gaze.
A fountain pen clings awkwardly
To collared shirts deprived of class
And status, hanging on for dear life
To a whisper of a memory,
Where absent fathers passed along
A nib of wisdom. “Keep a pen,
Reliable and crisp; empowered, clean,
And finely tuned by craftsmanship.
No moment in your life is less than worthy
Of commemoration.”
But neither He nor Time presided
Over misty Futures. Keeping wells as full
Of mourning and of evening
As human aspiration might allow.
So, quietly, and sometimes oddly too,
He clipped anachronism to a thread
That held the best of him around his neck,
To channel what was passed, and what might
Be the best of all to come.
We drink only a drop of what we can.
Such little things mean more, and last, and last.