Friday, August 30, 2013

Desk Dirge

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I cleared my desk,
I did, you’ve seen—
The wood was shiny,
Bright and clean.

All projects done,
All deadlines met,
All papers filed,
With room to let.

But, while asleep—
It must have been,
Disaster struck my little desk
Destroying all that had been clean.

A flare-up of an awful sort,
An upsurge came, tsunami-size.
My quiet reverie all forgot,
Vacation not to be my prize.

The work appeared,
Paper scattered all around;
A flood of lists, to do, to don’t,
Now unhappily abound.

The wood is covered on my desk
As suddenly objectives change.
Who knew last night the wave would come
And take control as though a mange?

The lamp is lit, there is no choice,
Work must be done, no matter what.
This rash of chores still face me here,
No end in sight to this great glut.

In vain I cry, “oh mercy, please,”
I’m overwhelmed by this great wave
And long for that once sweet, clean desk
And all the promise that it gave.

A pill, a prod, a puncture won’t
Relieve the problem now at hand.
The onset of some long, hard days
My future now for me is planned.

I make this desperate last appeal,
Oh clean desk, once so pristine,
So virtuous, so neat and nice—
How could you do this, why so mean?

Hostility has broken out
Between we two
Your outburst has me quite confused
I thought our friendship was like glue!

Together we would plan ahead,
I’d do my part then sleep in peace
With the assurance that as I slept
Work wouldn’t procreate, increase.

What’s that you say?
Do my ears hear right—
That it’s not your fault that
The flood of projects came to light?

You’re telling me that I’m to blame—
That this explosion on the wood
Lies squarely on my silly head
And means to me not bad, but good?

Now that I think upon the cause
You have a point, I must confess.
If I don’t work, bills don’t get paid
And I don’t eat, then more is less.

Sad, but true, the story tell,
That nice, clean wood is deadly thus.
It needs to suffer the disease
Of work, of challenges, of muss.

Beside the need of worldly blunt
There is another story to be told;
My idle hands and mind would be
No mine of silver or of gold,

But rather hay and stubble grow
And idle time produce no good,
But devil’s playground surely be.
So break out work, oh blessed wood—

That Godly glory shine in me.

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