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What Desk Speaks.

Contributed by invierno on Sunday, 20th September 2020 @ 09:31:29 PM in AEST
Topic: Lifepoems

What desk speaks to it’s owner?
Every desk, to every owner.
How much of all this stuff,
in clutter, is nestled in cohesive force,
and by what?
Had I not known the inner ticking’s
of this desk’s owner,
I would perhaps think he
likes old things and literature;
a broken gold ring,
what does it mean?
A cherished thing.
All a movie set? Perhaps, but it’s still me.
I know the square nails resting atop
a fifties clock are from a zinc pail
in the barn.
The magnifying glass;
what is it’s past?
It came from my biological father,
the only thing I retained from the only three days we spent in this life;
oh, not a gift, but forgotten, left for the hotel maid;
after retrieving; his loss, my gain.
Nothing to him, in his goofiness, but treasured by me, nonetheless.
Ah, that little nickel plated knife.
It’s here, surely a slice of this desk owners life.
It’s all that remains of marriage number two;
just as well, and fitting, as knives
are known to slew.
That wooden box?
“A pox!”, I say. Filled with bits of the past
condensed into little black thumb drives;
tiny bytes will be all that remain of mine,
and everyone’s, lives.

Copyright Â© invierno ... [ 2020-09-20 21:31:29]
(Date/Time posted on site)

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Re: What Desk Speaks. (User Rating: 1 )
by softerware on Monday, 21st September 2020 @ 03:28:30 AM AEST
(User Info | Send a Message)

Traces of our existence languish everywhere, unintended. Even a stain in the rug has its story.
That which we are today, we can never be again.
But for the gift of memory; in song, fragrance, touch, color and random objects alluding to past days, we would be only still lifes on a conveyor belt to hell/'/s door.

To sit with a friend under a tree in a hot breeze ripe with perfumes of summer/'/s past, is to hold our once upon a time for just a moment. And such moments are the essence of friendship, whose tears can wait for another day.

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