Way past tired, I slept on a sofa.
My aunts could not have known of my angst,
frozen as forsythia, tears in a blue
teacup, my heart is starched. My desire
wasn't born yet, night or day.
I lost my passport on an express train, riding through lance-like trees,
into thickets, rushing into a dark eternity,
finding no destination station.
If only this was a quiet breathless
dream where people bade me goodbye,
then left without a trace, straight into dawn.

Clutter bug with a barren desk,
thinking I've conquered disorganization,
containing only stapler, tape dispenser, pens,
croissant, greasy bag, envelope opener,
calculator and dusty computer disk. But all are quirky, even the Dell computer towering over
all the antiquated tools, missing bites,
yellowing at the corners, uncapped and derelict.
The contents of my desk are neglected.
Dust and crumbs cover surfaces
like morning dew without the fresh appeal.
Yet I am grateful for my tools
for without them I could not work or write
But like a reforming parent, I pledge to take better
Care of my workspace, post haste.