Acquisitions

Barefoot, I pad down the hall,

careful to avoid floorboards

that complain in their dotage.

I stand, unnoticed,

to the side of your office door,

shielded by ornate woodwork

painted white—

time and again.

You lean into the computer,

thick fingers typing sporadically—

half-rimmed glasses slid down

the bridge of your nose,

beads of sweat poised

above your lip.

Strewn with books and papers,

that wooden desk, old as the house,

swallows your stout frame.

“A statement piece,” you said

when I’d asked about it months ago.

The furniture and I

have much

in common.