Arms shoulder deep in heating vents
recover three pennies and a backdoor key.
An overturned sofa dispenses
enough coins for a Coke
and a chocolate bar.
No pens. No pencils

Sometimes I like to imagine
that the world is equipped
with a secret central-vac system
that sucks all writing utensils
into an underground cavern:
Where click pens spend weekdays
sticking their nibs in and out
at Bics with chewed caps
and ever-sharps poke fun
at broken-leaded No. 2s.

Then on weekends they all congregate
harmoniously to help Sharpies
mark names on toes of odd socks
that keep mysteriously appearing.