Dobie’s Desk

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Dobie’s Desk

Sitting at this desk, I wonder
whose words will emerge

from the stained wood,
its whorls and cracked surface

detailing a specific language
of the inert and precious.

Earlier I rapped the cistern
to verify water level,

and a week ago startled
a cottonmouth sunning its lengthy

self at the crossing. The door
just blew open, perhaps,

or a ghost wished to offer its
voice, neither malice

nor approval imbedded
in the gesture. History

shadows me despite my best
efforts. I walk, drink water,

write, think of friends left
behind or gone ahead,

reading between the grains
and dark spaces, looking for rain

in the blue, for light and benediction
and the secret poetry of furniture.

26 thoughts on “Dobie’s Desk”

  2. Another contemplative beauty, Bob. I especially like “the secret poetry of furniture.” I treasure a rough-hewn primitive table scarred — or perhaps valorized — by the pattern tracing wheel of a long-ago seamstress.

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  4. aww, this makes me think of you, sitting at your desk, in a quiet corner, wishing to find a spark of flow, upon which you can transfer the feeling onto screen, for US, your faithful readers, who know that we will be touched by you in our deep sense, similar to what lies in yours.

    p.s. that is a marvelous desk. wish I had one like that.

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  9. I’m sitting at my desk, listening to the music of, Until The Ribbon Breaks, a new experience in sound for me, rhythmically enjoyable, reading your words, weaving a tune like a bird on a wire, and I’ll save the song for my evening muse.

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