Every time I think about dying,
I worry about my Parker Pens
falling into the wrong hands
at a price below their worth.
Father treasured his Parker—
it came with a lifetime guarantee,
much like his Rolls Razor,
he could hone and strop himself.
He seemed to sail out the door,
his orange pen clamped on
to his Roger’s Peet vest
underneath the gold bezel
railroad watch fobbed across his chest.
I plan to have D.N.R. tattooed
on my forehead with instructions
to leave a Parker Pen tucked
behind each ear in case paper
is available in the next world.