Two Poems Written on Flight 369 to San Francisco

I.


The man across the aisle asks for a pen,
and the woman next to me searches.
I remain silent, though I have
five pens in my briefcase.

Which should I lend?
The big, orange Conklin?
The amber Waterman Carene?
The blue-marbled Parker Sonnet?
Or one of the Waterfords,
One faceted silver,
The other deep, transparent, royal blue?

I am a woman rich in pens,
and I do not share.


II.


The man in back of me says:
“Taiwan, with all its mountains
and its… typography, is beautiful.”

In my mind’s eye, I see
rugged fonts like mountain ranges;
thin, graceful fonts like bamboo forests;
square fonts like cities;
curving fonts like brush strokes or rivers;
fonts shaped like villages, paddies,
factories, schools, prisons;
fonts as round as faces or moons.