Really: why a desk? To write a letter?
Finish the novel? Invent inelegant software
for a Montana millionaire cowboy?
Wish I’d had sympathy for the eye,
or his Homeric allusions. Even without the patch
she’d been in love with him
for at least the dog’s life. After all,
she hunted the desk, a big furnishing
she and Polyphemus will lug up their twelve steps.
Is that how they met? Sobered up
and blasted out of New Orleans?
It will add to their antiques.
They have the gun rack
great great grandfather milled,
a thing he’ll never pawn.
Gentle people, small talk.
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