Desk

By John I. Blair

The front edge of my office desk
Is smooth and shining.
It’s only cheap Formica
On chipboard core,
But six and twenty years
Of sliding arms along the surface
Have packed its pores
With countless skin cells
And oil of me.
More than fifty thousand hours
Of inspiration, boredom and frustration—
So much time I cannot contemplate,
But the desk bears witness.

A decade back
I had the chance to get new furniture,
Something made of real wood,
Or at least a good veneer,
With drawers that didn’t stick And an unmarred top.
I turned it down. Long since
This desk and I have consummated
A marriage of convenience
And we’re happy with each other.
Content with all our faults
And quirks and cranks,
We’ll stay together till the end.

®2003 John I. Blair