Inkless

His three-cent black ink Bic
clacks against the hard wood of his
desk not out of habit,
I realize, but because his hands tremble from
some dread impulse of nerves.

This must be his penance:
ink to page as whitewash to concrete.
Though he ever scrawls,
each judgmental slim blue margin
stays as empty as the next.

(copyright a(scetic)verse)