I wish I knew
where you’ve got to
I miss you so.
I miss the little sounds you made,
the scratching.
I miss you.
I miss holding you,
having you at my fingertips,
feeling you move.
I miss you.
I miss sharing my thoughts,
your rapt, eager attention.
I miss you.
I miss making poetry together,
the shared silent secrets.
I miss you.
I made a mistake,
I was not myself
has that cost me you forever?
I miss you.
I was so careful,
always thinking of you
didn’t I try my best?
But all that care,
day after day,
undone by one mistake.
Is that fair?
I miss you.
I miss loving you.
I miss holding you.
I miss writing with you.
I miss you.
Dispatches from the wilds of Poetania – “Penelope”
Dispatches from Lost-Pennsylvania
(Wherein our intrepid hero attempts an adventure not unalike Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark)
I lost the pen that my father gave me for my 21st birthday. Naturally, I’m rather unimpressed. Of course, I’m not the sort of person to take this sort of thing lying down. Thus, I proceeded to plaster Newtown with the following poster. (Click on it for a larger version)
I received some calls as a result, but none from anyone who had found my pen. One caller did claim to have found it; I answered the phone and was greeted by a rather suspect English accent:
“I’ve found your pen. Here’s what you’re going to do: you’re going to take $400, put it in a duffel bag, and place it behind the headstone of Alfred Simpson*. Then you’re going to walk away. You will then be contacted with details of where you can retrieve your pen. “
“You know, you might have actually pulled it off if it wasn’t for the dodgy English accent”
[His voice changed slightly] “But I am English!”
[I laughed]
“Are you serious about this? Did you really lose a pen?”
“Of course. Why else would I do it? It’s very sentimentally valuable to me.”
“Does it even have any ink in it?”
“It’s a fountain pen, you can refill it.”
“Oh. Well, we’re all wishing you luck, then.”
“Thanks.”
“Will you put up posters to let us know if you get it back?”
“I suppose I could. Though you should know, your call: I’ve died a little inside now”
“Oh… well, I don’t feel so bad, now.”
“Glad I could be of service”
I also went around to the various art and stationery stores where one would be able to buy ink for my pen, and left copies of my poster with them. However, not having received any good news, I have decided to move on to the next stage of my plan; The Omega Protocol. Simply put, I’m writing a chain e-mail.
May god have mercy on my soul.
*I don’t actually remember the name he used, and you may consider the conversation roughly paraphrased, rather than taken verbatim.
