The desk, navy blue, a DIY from Ikea, with its mistake
in assembly cleverly hidden.

A desk, purchased with writerly intent, 
now a repository for companion objects, selected
talismans, good luck charms, bookmarks, notebooks
covered in baroque flowers or fantastic animals, 
the scented candles, all in mercury glass, and
the strike-anywhere matches, an omnipresent
cup of tea, half drunk and cold on a souvenir coaster
from a long-forgotten California winery, half-read 
books of advice from other writers with big ideas and 
even bigger magic, the small bronze pig with 
his widespread wings, and a 99¢ gel pen
from that Japanese store on Fifth Avenue, the pen
with purple ink that writes so smoothly.

Nearby, the empty chair awaits the writer, who spends her time
preparing for the arrival of another to share this space.


This draft poem was written in response to Miz Quickly's invitation to write about an abstraction and on a loose interpretation of the NaPoWriMo prompt of the day.