A new pen

after months of blue fingertips and smudged papers,
of freckles covered in ink, and the ensuing embarrassment,
a new pen.
the old one relegated to the rubbish bin, sadly, so
many memories, so many poems written in that  ink-stained
hand, no smell of cigarettes, only Poussiere de Lune, my favorite
color of all times.
times like this end, as do all times, the smell of summer evenings
and empty glasses of wine, the drifting off of their voices
after a dinner that lingered a bit too long, our
energies have drifted to nothing but
fumes.
now, the box open, I gaze at my new friend,
tomorrow a poem will roll off her tip
in green and arrive here
in electronic glory.