Desk Revisited

by adam carnes

The tendrils of root and vine spread vivaciously through the motherboard, up towards faded LCD and scratches of memories stored, yet lost to lack of power and sophisticated stamina,

Lost too the animals of late.

A mirror-cracked smorgasbord patterned a ritual caps lock and arthritic tick, gave a game, and showed a wheel, spread chance, luck, and hope. Theirs would be none of that.

Scorn at scorched decisions latent in buy offs, all the payout’s, the least of which, neither, is burdensome now. Here.

Then, Yes.

Oh, god yes, but here.

No.

All is nature and reversion is exponentially fashioned to be not only taking its course, but also altering it so unnaturally.

The desk I once spent those hours’ tediously compensated minutes copying; pasting folders and files, and renaming Lynda’s pictures because she could never even figure it out,

Always with more, more, and more detail.

Serene some 25 years later, no has it been that long.

30 years later.

The cobwebs creep down below the metal legs and swoops swooshes,

Swish switches back as satchels of the years’ prey mummify in their midst.

Brushed away and feel the air shift, snuffing the steps of hard work.

I felt the spiders would have to do this through necessity as, do I, assuredly.

Years of hard work must draw near, as I am tired and want this to be where I left them.

The top drawer always stuck just a little. The slight nudge passed the 2/3 mark, the sweet spot.

Unless, as sometimes did happen, a pen or lighter, became wedged behind the right rear wheel, the wood had rotted, black and orange with rolling shadowers,

And there!

Shit.

It was a lighter behind that wheel, yellow and faded. 30 years. Could it light the flares to lead the rest of us out?

Flick. Flick. Constant check of chipping flint for just a glimpse of faulty maps and corridors adorned with dust and “In the beginnings,”

Flourished cornucopia like bacterial indulgence swept.

The corrosion left this warehouse, a place where sundries, covered roofs, evictions counting them all one by one;

Lever rusted with autumn dust, pointed stars sleep steep tales of pass it on.

Moreover, there was a crumpled piece of paper,

Unrumpled corners crept the light in cascading imagery ink read with an odor of ceremony.