I was struck this evening by the odd assortment of objects that litter my ‘desk’. If you want to play poems about my work place, I’d be intrigued to read them. Post a link in the comments and let’s see what clutter you surround yourselves with.
On my desk, that I never use because it has been swamped by objects that leave no room for me, are two files of more or less important papers, a pot full of pens and pencils, a desk tidy where old letters lie in state from a time when we wrote letters, a few stamps (must buy some more) a clutch of photographs escaped from the Big Photo Box, a bottle of perfume, two boxes of seeds (aquilegia from the park and hollyhocks from a street in the Chartrons), dog nail clippers, postits and sellotape, and a bouquet of dried lavender. The chair is where the unpaid bills wait until the last minute or beyond, and sometimes a cat sits on the faded cushion, glaring at the dog at the other side of the room, daring him to say something.
It is part of the scenery, that old desk, like a painting on the wall, or the view beyond the window. It exists, ages side by side with me, the cat, the dog, with its own accumulation of belongings that I never like to move.
A life in waiting,
a siding where no trains pass,
last summer’s fragrance.