His hands
Were dry and cracked
With opened scars
Over his knuckles.
In his right hand, he twirled
A pen and held a pencil
With his left.
He stared blankly
At his sheet of paper,
Like an anti-social
Person at a bus stop.
As I stared, I wondered
If he wrote for fun or for work.
But he looked up
And stared at me,
“The pen is for the final draft,
where everything is completed.”