A Rolling Pencil

I nudged the old wooden pencil free from the cushion seam and let it slide down to the floorboards. Crawling out after it, I found the pencil resting near the shadowy dust ruffle beneath the sofa. I placed both flexible hands on its smooth hexagonal barrel and gave it a gentle push. It rolled across the floor with a rhythmic wooden clatter, stopping right between two wooden legs. I lay down flat on the cool boards, resting my chin on the yellow pencil like a soft pillow. Listening to the quiet room, it felt like a fine resting spot for the night.