O cartridge pen of blue and gold
Used much in days of old
When younger was I–aye, by years.
I say farewell with tears.

My fingers you have stained with ink
And, when I fought to think
And scratched my head and prayed for grace,
You also stained my face.

But now your ink has all run dry
And, howsoe’er I try,
I cannot find replacement bits
So, rather than have fits

Whene’er I see thee useless, pen,
I cast thee in the bin
And weep to bid thee sad adieu
I had good use of you.

There is something so satisfying about the flow of ink from the nib of a fountain pen–even a cartridge pen. One of these fine days, I am going to give myself a present of a pretty fountain–FOUNTAIN, I say–pen, the kind with the little lever you use to pump it full of ink, so you can get your fingers and clothes all blotty before you even write a word. I am always up for a challenge, and filling a fountain pen was always a challenge for me, klutz that I am. So there it is. My bucket list. Buy a fountain pen and the ink for it and fill it and write with it. Is that one item or four?

Writing prompt: Describe a clumsy person doing something fiddly, like filling a fountain pen or stringing beads or threading a needle. Have fun.

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