It sits in queue with a hundred others on a roll,
watching its master pen his words.
It watches the world like a baby,
but the world doesn’t see it.
Yes, it can be seen, if you must know,
but grown ups are too busy
talking, laughing, writing,
and doing every other thing adults do to notice it.
It sees more in a few days
than many men see their whole life,
and that inequality is good
even for philosophers and anthropologists,
who spend their time
looking inward and outward
getting nowhere.

It hears its master pause
and ask aloud what next to write.
It says nothing, for it has no mouth
with which to utter a sound.
But if it had a tongue,
it would have the voice
of a wise, old man,
calm and quit,
and content to be
no louder than
a wisp of the breeze.
Its near inaudible voice
would drive away stupidity and profundity,
all in a single utterance.
Would that it could speak,
but enough
with wishing.

It is a servant to duty,
and will not abandon its fellows
for a greater, nobler work.
Its occupation is a humble one, yes,
but not to be mocked or ridiculed,
for no other would do its work.
Its life begins at the final stroke
of his master. It must oversee
the delivery of the note
to the intended recipient.

But for what? When its job is done,
and each of its kind only has one
(its sole purpose in life being
to serve it out in excellence unto disposal),
it is tossed aside and forgotten.
No word of thanks.
No appreciation.
No 401(k).
Yes, I must admit,
a few lucky guardians survive
the garbage can only to be affixed
by the hand of a child to a blank page
with a little bit of glue
but these are few,
and becoming fewer and fewer
as children turn to more devious forms
of entertainment and frivolity.

Still, a great deal remain,
and these go on to become the wisest of their kind,
to be revered even by the great-great grandchildren
of their masters in great rooms dedicated
to the preservation and display
of these stewards and guardians of the letter.