the Sonnet of A Clueless Writing Desk

She leans on soft-point arms to disclose on

My shoulders; my edges; my burns; my stern

Knot-eyes. Her smile, not given but earned,

Means my shy comforts she must thus syphon.

She gives no credit – I’ll crave to be kissed…

But to who does she owe success? To me?

A day and one later, she’ll see it leave.

Dear, will you see through time’s mists what you missed?

Sweet swan, russet dove, I made not your wings,

But crafted your lines to make sweeter things.

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