the desk…

appointment cards and old baseball tickets sat on his desk next to an empty bottle of Vraylar…roll of toilet paper…books…and a silver mug to piss in when the bathroom down the hall was occupied lay on the wooden piece of furniture that stood in his dad’s office for years …ever since he could remember…built by Amish in Northern Indiana…passed onto him when his dad died one Christmas morn…

he used the desk to write poems on…short stories…long letters to old friends who no longer stayed in touch…he’d send out flares…they were never answered…

wrote notes to himself and stuck ’em all over the wooden frame…grocery lists…electric bill due dates…don’t forget to water the gardenia…pick up prescriptions at the drug store…poetic lines…quotes from newspapers…never threw any of ’em away…kept everything neatly organized…in rows…like cornfields in the Midwest…

the fat man sat at that desk for hours at a time…thinking of what to write…thinking of a time when he didn’t have a desk…or books…or anything…a free agent able to move at any given moment…just pack and leave…head out to the West coast…or South…might even end up in New Mexico…

now his wonderin’ days were over…had taken in too much stuff…’spose he could just leave it all behind and take off in the middle of the night like in the old days…but…that old wooden desk meant somethin’ to him…it was like hangin’ onto a piece of the past…like his father was in the room with him always…

that desk kept him rooted…

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