Talking Number Two

One fine day my pencil spoke,
he was leaning in my black cup.
At my desk my eyes grew wide,
when he inquired, “What is up?”
He was my talking number two,
his voice arrived out of the blue,
and at first I did not have a clue,
but then I knew just what to do,
with my inquisitive number two.
I reached out and he exclaimed,
“About damn time you used me!”
And as he rode within my hand,
I knew he spoke quite pointedly.
He was my talking two all right,
he seemed sharpened with spite,
but then I sensed a bit of delight,
when I pressed him into a write,
and he said, “I'm your graphite.”
Number two then acted happy,
writing evident and snappy,
lean, long body yellow,
excited and mellow,
applied in my den
in lieu of a pen,
something
now to
do.

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