spilled

The woman
Opened her notebook
To add another poem

Plenty of blank pages
That were new
But already weathered
Worn out from being carried
In a rucksack
In the rain

The barely-used pen in her pocket
Slowly leaked
red ink
Like a plugged
gunshot wound
That’s only keeping
You alive
Until you notice it

So there’d be no poem today
Or ever again
Because all poets know that
All pens
Leak,
Eventually