The Magic Pointer

It was one rainy day (‘not too torrential’ he might say.)
when story- teller walked in
to a bookstore.
there by the counter lain
a shiny (say ‘sparkly’) pen.
but lo and behold it was in fact!
a pen built-in
to the extendable metal pointer.
Surely it’s no power laser nib,
Or reaches 10 feet up to meet your tip
But story-teller likes its independency
A kind of pride- non battery powered.
(‘magic!’, that’s his word.)

For magic it did turn
out,
For the moment he went back home
And closed the door behind him so,
The pointer extended to his wife’s (‘the hag’ he called her)
mid-life stress
and showed the dirty fireplace.
It might as well reveal the thin curtains (rags in fact)
And poor old misty, the pregnant cat.
He shook his head as she approached him
“dear”
“ We’ve run out of baked beans”
“it’s not my fault”
“there’s only bread”
“for us both”
Story-teller gazed (like in a daze)
His magic pointer quivered safely
In his warm gloved hand.

He didn’t stay long, for next moment
he turned
And strode right out of home.

He was smug,
the magic pointer did work.
The magic pointer perhaps could do his work!
Story-telling was his forte,
twenty-seven solid years
That is what bought his bread.
But he quivered now,
from cold.
The pointer pointed to where it went
To the vagabond on the street
And the rich man’s stride ('a dollar sir?')
To each he felt dumb disdain
For his lips, too cool to speak.
His hands, too numb, from cold
Dropped the pointer when he tried
To twirl, to spin a yarn.

As it fell the pointer nib turned to face
The face of him.
An immediate dismay befell,
When he realized what great story
He had to tell.
So as people start to gather round,
The man used his shame to entertain.

As soon as he was done,
Story-teller fell and died.
The magic pointer rolled into
the dispersing crowd,
Picked up by a child of nine-
Later as we are to know,
Stabbed his baby sister in the toe.