Desklove

I love my desk.

My small space where I can do anything.

Dark wood that looks sometimes rich as chocolate

Sometimes black as ink

Sometimes simply a surface, pitted and battered

Scarred by use.

Like it’s alive under me.

The brown runs to worn coffee-foam hazel in one zone.

In another a past user has madly scratched

a tangle of scribbles.

There are chips and deep gashes where the inner wood shows through –

Almost the colour of skin.

This desk has felt pain.

It is narrow, it doesn’t hold much

But what it does hold is precious

Because it is mine now.

Its legs are thin but sturdy.

I am transfixed by its colour  

So much so that I sometimes write shit like this:

A love poem for a hunk of wood.                               

This is the first time love has been simple

Maybe it’s mine forever.