too much greasy finger pinching has polished my yellow-painted wood so much I’m slippery to hold but if you must use me press firmly, harder than normal so I may write legibly like I did in my youth my lead, once coal soft is now as hard as obsidian so I’m sluggish on paper, needing frequent rests with meager results I really prefer to stay at home in his cup of writing instruments that’s where I’m comfortable, watching the world channeled through those fancy gel pens

shaking hands could be dangerous you never know if what you grab could zap, burn or kill you maybe a smile or simple hand wave but what if a lip curl or fluttering fingers is a threat in their tradition? and I would not stare, squint or blink fast because they might think you’re charging some kind of bioweapon perhaps a side bow with the arms out and little jiggle of the head, sometimes silliness is a sure sign of harmlessness or maybe, a song would do the trick sound

the founders had only inspiration to craft a unity of states they hoped would come alive off the pages if they were here now, 250 years later, I’m sure they’be impressed at the advancements to ease the struggles of living - the convenience of plumbing, electricity, excellent healthcare and not only do we travel without horses, but fly like birds in the air and my God, have even set foot on the moon and wouldn’t they love Lady Liberty, holding her torch of promise high,