I started drawing recently.
I have three old, used pencils,
all mechanical, that I’ve had for years.
One is .5mm, another is .7mm, and the last is .9mm.
.7 and .9 don’t have a clip anymore –
in high school, I chewed them off and they snapped in
two. Their erasers are worn down, near nonexistent
and when I shake them,
it sounds empty.
The .5 sits to the side, a full eraser, rattling every time
it moves, and a sharpness at its point, but
too weak for me to be used.
There are six seats at the dining room table,
and seven people here for dinner tonight.
There’s seven plates, one positioned in between
two seats. I stand there, staring out the window as it rains,
while everybody sits. A person laughs, saying that they got
too many plates, and goes to put the seventh away, the clinking
of the silverware drawer and the clunk of the cupboard closing
echoing in the room.
I back out, slowly, and decide to eat dinner at another time.