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.”

-Greg