There is a pointy building
Among the boxy and slightly curved
Steel and concrete high-rises
In the Beijing Central Business District.
Pointy like the Mongol No. 2 pencil
I used to keep in my pocket
While running around the playground
Back in fourth grade.
It was always freshly sharpened.
It punctured the inside of my pocket
But one day as I was running,
It punctured my skin
And left a permanent mark
Right next to the mole
On my right forearm.
My first ever tattoo.
Though I had owned and kept
A hard metal pencil box
Inside my school bag at all times,
I refused to use it
Because I thought it was inconvenient
And time-consuming.
I would rather clip the pencil
Behind my right ear
For easy and speedy access,
Like a carpenter or an architect would.
I often forgot that it was behind my ear
And asked my friends if they had seen it.
Now there is a pointy building,
Pointy like my Mongol No. 2 pencil,
Made of metal, glass, and concrete
In the Beijing Central Business District.