It lays alone on the sidewalk, forgotten or unwanted as the cold wind blows unfeelingly around it. Its yellow form shows conspicuously against the grey concrete and brittle, brown grass. Still, people walk by, ignorant or ignoring it. A foot comes perilous close to treading on it, which would likely have broken its fragile body. Its kind are cheaply bought and sold, even given away for free. Would any have mourned its destruction?
In defense of the passersby, it is a wee little thing, slender and scarcely the length of one's hand. Still, can't they see that it's not ready to be relegated to a dump? It could yet serve a purpose—exist in some useful capacity. But too much time in the harsh elements would certainly destroy its chances.
Seeing it so forlorn, I pick up the pencil and tuck it into my warm coat pocket, determined to give the poor, neglected thing a home and employment.
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