Oscar Wilde Mont Blanc

If Oscar Wilde were a pen, he would be a fountain pen
with a gold nib; writing every day, a poem, a love letter,
a missive.

On top of the column with the Happy Prince
reaching literary heights of terrible pathos
and exquisite pleasure;

We can't be dismissive of such grace and eloquence,
a generous genius overflowing like the Trevi
in Rome.

Hand-crafted, hand-tooled, marbled leather notebook,
filled with jottings and entries, seemingly off the cuff,
improvised, ad-lib.

The mechanical pencil in pearl and black, there on the bureau
as if waiting to launch an epic like Stendhal or Balzac.

Words coming into their own, coming home like doves
to the cote, a king finding his fairy tale kingdom
and showering gold coins on the populace.