Archeology

The words are cornered
in a childhood pencil you recover.
You love the geometry of its sides,
bite marks reminding how you chewed hours

in long ago classrooms, perhaps aspiring
to be a beaver or other lofty rodent.
You’ve seen that maker of dams celebrated
on a Canadian coin, just like the Queen.

The Queen is dead. You doubt she ever
chewed on pencils or idolized rodents.
But one never knows, for sure. The heart
is deep and intricate with nooks and crannies

like a muffin. I mean the metaphorical heart.
The real one is just squishy, gross and monotonous.
You are glad to have the pencil back.
You will write poems that look out the window.