Eraser. Claes Oldenberg, 1976
I mourn the loss of erasers.
Now we just hit the delete button.
But with an eraser there was a rhythm,
A cadence to the task.
You make a mistake.
There is the brief exhale
Like a quick sigh
To expel the tiny frustration.
Then there’s the eraser itself.
The feel of it.
Erasers are the cousins of rubber bands.
Everyone knows this.
Then there’s the rubbing.
And The Disappearing Act.
And then the small finger of the left hand flicks once,
The tiny rolls of spent eraser.
And then the soft blow
To disperse them.
And then it all starts again until the next mistake.
And then the writing, writing, writing-
My delete button thinks I’m crazy.
He says writing is not dancing.