The crowded desk at which I feel I'm chained
is a type of oak, compressed and stained
and stained again with rings from cups
from which I spilled and would not clean up
Its drawers are full—a final resting place
for pens dried long ago, and remedies I thought would work
to clear a cough, earache, or rumbled stomach
a coffin for throat spray colored to resemble wine
a casket for cassettes I won't rewind
a tomb for empty hand cream jars
and pepper packs and Matchbox cars
There you'll find old coins half-stuck
and scraps of paper with lines for poems
and leaks from polish for my nails
and last year's lilac blooms gone brown
a white ribbon from my wedding gown
A crowded desk laden with books
And sheet music I never give a look
and mistakenly-printed papers I mean to reuse
for notes for novels I may never re-peruse
This fine desk will hold all I ask
Its strength unequaled to the task
I've never found the time to clear it
and only find sweet words to endear it—
This desk has lived beside me like a saint.
Who else would hold so much without complaint?
Brilliant and I can certainly relate to these words. It shows the wind of life has passed by so quickly. Love your work.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Such a beautiful poetry. Wonderful weaving of words. Thanks so much for sharing.10++
Thank you very much, Anil! - Jenny