The Idle Pen

For someone who is an aspiring writer
I still never seem to
Find a pen when I need one;
Much less a crucifix.
Eventually, though,
After I’ve checked under
Every book
Piled on my bed,
And under the books
Spilled along the sides
Of my bed--
When I scratch the top
Of my head in utter disgust
And contemplate giving up the search
And just smoking another cigarette;
Eventually--
As my hand descends from its nervous,
Subconscious scratching,
It inadvertently grazes
My fluid friend’s flesh:
The pen (mounted);
Asleep:
Sandwiched between
My ear and skull in
The womb of neglect/
Regret/ success.