There’s heavy-hanging heft in that word: desk.
A stable, steady stone not on the pate
But nonetheless oppressive in its weight
That in not touching’s all the more grotesque.
It crouches not unlike an obelisk
Upon a grave. But who has died? First mate,
Fond friend, free will is buried here, his wait
For heav’n criminally Kafkaesque.
Yet on the wall, sans church bells, hangs the clock
Which yet portends the clement close of day.
No chimes will ring when all the proles disband,
But music will be made by feet that walk
Without a maestro’s guide. Tonight, men say,
“For now, I’m mine, and I won’t sit. I’ll stand.”