I sat next to this pen at the busstop.
We didn’t have much of a conversation, but I wondered what stories it had to tell, if only I’d asked the right questions: whose hands had cradled it, through long puzzled hours; and then, in a pique of absentmindedness, had left it behind? What places had it voyaged to, perched in a pocket, or asleep in a pencil case?
I wondered how long more it would sit here, until someone else decided to pick it up again, and murmur, “finders-keepers”. I wondered if it would enjoy the serene, interminably quiet hours of the Dover Road night; if it would puzzle at the strange zombies that wandered through the busstop.
The 196 came then, and I mouthed a secret ‘good luck’ to the pen, marvelling at the untold, uncounted, unseen odysseys of little things, even as I continued on my own.