Always searching, always knee deep
in the comforts of furniture and layout
like some kind of fengshui guru practicing
without a license.
I put desk against wall of east,
rearrange my sill of trinkets, slot books
into differing shelves, sit
back in rigid office chair and wait.
It will come to me,
that wash of serenity,
it must do this time, after all this movement
and reorder that I put in, the joy
of feeling is surely just about
to land within.
But of course I am lacking.
Is it the place or is it the personality?
Surely I need window and air and sunshine
and soft cushioning and I shall return
to that powerhouse of production?
I chase a ghost,
one with time and ignorance stacked
in favour. No need of work, nor
responsibilities, just hour upon hour
of self and machine.
On desk warped and chewed, on machine
cumbersome and slow, on chair hard
and short, none mattered but
page and creation.
You can never return,
and you know this,
but you can emulate.
You can adapt, bring into the fold
the things that improve and perhaps
any spot with you and word processing
could be perfect.