A pencil from the Algonquin

That dull matt black I adore
black with night fallen on it
but not overcome, deepened
without the shine. Each end

the black lead, the black rubber tip
like a black shirt emerging from a cuff
and between the legend in silver
Algonquin Hotel 59 West 44^th Street.

Isn’t there a cat on a pink chaise-longue
Descendant of a cat of a cat
who may deign to condescend
to certain favoured guests?

But I who have not been
to the Algonquin or New York
have this pencil, so stylish
so dark, so full of wit.