The Bottle Of Ink

He sat in the office all alone

     And his pen was in his hand;

To it he had toed a silken thread

     And his smile was more than bland.

To the string was tied a bended pin,

     And then, O what do you think?

He held it over his desk, and he

     Fished in his bottle of ink!

The boss he came in and saw him there,

     And quietly left again;

He wouldn’t disturb the fisherman

     With his pin and thread and pen.

He fished and he fished the hours away,

     He cared not for food or drink;

He angled all day so faithfully,

     Deep in his bottle of ink.

Night came, and it found him fishing still,

     But his smile was now a grin;

For he had discerned a wee, wee bite

     On his thread and bended pin.

When lo! He pulled on his silken thread,

     And then on the glassy brink

There wiggled a thought which he had caught

     Out of his bottle of ink.

June 8, ‘09