Desk

The oak desk is a polished surface holding-up nothing, reflecting nothing not even a base of anything. Once it was an upheaval of random displacements of elbows and eyes. E-mails wriggled like worms in wet ground. Fragments tap danced on hurried fingertips. The desk grew paper towers some spoke, others were silent monoliths. Coffee splashed over keys that opened up a world no one ever saw from any window. A lapdog now chatters between belly and knees, it wags words, pulls them out of muddy puddles bedraggled and yelping. The desk needs a vase, maybe a rose in a tulip glass, what it actually has is a lot of bundled-up ghosts polished into invisibility.