By Request

My husband loved the before christmas poem about losing my shoes and has now requested that I write about my office…so take it up with him.

Clean it up, and find your shoes,
my helpful husband offers.
He is not aware of what he asks,
it’s here I fill my coffers.

Although the floor is piled high
with music, books and papers,
in this space that’s mine alone,
I work on all my capers.

My room is roughly 10 x 12
with overflowing shelves,
I don’t know how the work gets done,
it must be all those elves.

Van Gogh, Kandinsky, and Picasso
hang on butterscotch walls.
A four-line phone atop my desk,
it’s here I field the calls.

No office furniture in my room,
I much prefer a den.
It’s such a mess, oh can’t you guess,
I’ll never find my pen.

Notebooks and file folders
cascade on a serving cart.
I can’t keep track of all there is,
I’ll have to make a chart.

My desk an oblong dining table,
belonged to my grandmother.
It’s piled high with reference books
and so I need another.

From great Aunts Hattie and Tillie
comes my oval dining table.
It’s here I sit and window watch
whenever I am able.

I’ll never find my shoes or keys,
as much you might suspect.
Don’t give me that look, i’m writing three books,
what else do you expect?

“It’s very clear, it’s a disaster my dear.”
“I know,” I say with a sigh.
“If you clean it all up, you might be in luck.”
“Okay, well maybe I’ll try.”