The desk

I still remember when my father took the large desk for an overhaul
He wasn’t happy about the work they’d done on it!
I didn’t realise at the time, what was wrong with it
It looked fine

It sat in the dining room for years
I still remember coming down the stairs (from my bedroom)
In the middle of the night
To find him pounding on his computer (I’m not sure it was called a computer then)
He seemed to work all hours this man
Why couldn’t come out and play football?

Later when I thought I was grown, a MAN (not that I was)
I still heard him at the desk
Now it felt more safe than repelling
He still hammered away during the night
(though I ounce checked an no one was there)

The desk kept his writings – his thoughts
Like the Whale that consumed Jonah
But this whale didn’t digest, just devoured

I sit at this desk now
Feels good to touch the ancient wood
I’ve always thought it to be driftwood from Russia
And it deliberately escaped the mill to be found
And made into this desk
Wanting to be more than just Parquet
Just to be stepped on

The desk connects me to him
To earth, to write nothing important
Or highly important
Depends on the mood I guess

Feels good to sit here though.