The
ink-stained desk at which all his poems had been written resented poetry, it
disliked ink, and had no use for wineglass rings on the wood, or the caustic
splashes of whiskey. But it was a desk,
and so had little to say about poetry or anything else, and lived its wooden
life in the hope that someone other than a poet, a premier, for example, or a
CEO, would one day sit down and sign a check, or initial an order to invade a
country, anything but the love-sick mutterings or impotent phrasings the desk
had perforce grown so resigned to house. “Just don’t mention the moon today,”
thought the desk. “For once don’t sit here and write about the moon.”
