Howie Good: Now That the Buffalo Are Gone

THE YELLOW PENCIL No matter how loud I shout, my voice doesn’t carry. Only in old movies do the lovers escape on an ice floe. The night supervisor, his face curiously flushed, whispers something I can’t hear to the new girl working the line in the family pencil factory. Later, the worn rubber nub of a no. 2 pencil erases…

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