My mate Jeffery runs performance workshops for businessmen,
‘Achieve your potential leadership’, shit like that,
‘Your desktop is the window to your soul’.
On my desktop the in-tray overflows,
with bills, tax receipts, junk mail leaflets of interest.
Next to it, a stack of reused A4 paper,
handwritten quotes from the radio,
or half poems, scribbles,
things I am working on or printouts of some joke
that seemed funny at the time.
Books, old and new, a thesaurus, yesterday’s newspaper,
some magazines unread.
A cup of pens. Six pencils.
Paperclips. Who uses those thesedays?
An apple core, withered. That must have been some time ago.
It dehydrates atop the photo of a gorilla in Rwanda,
big eyed and coffee stained from the ring of my cup.
There’s a lot of dust.
A box of stamps.
Old screws and a piece of wood.
Where did that come from?
My other desk. The one inside.
It has your picture. Not much else.
a movie as you turn and flick your hair,
in answer some question about nothing.
Each evening at close I sweep to clean the desk,
and fill to overfull the rubbish bin beside.
Yet each morning, there you are again.
Your picture on my desk.