My old office remakes itself;
It's large enough that a long table,
Useful for collating, and a couch,
Useful for falling asleep,
Are almost lost in it.
There are three desks, one of them
Austere, neat, functional.
That one isn't mine.
The cabinets burst with files;
Smoke from a pipe lost since 1986
Dances in the air. Memos
Wait to be ignored. A scarecrow
Sits at my desk, writing letters
Making calls, turning to the window,
To watch the new moon rise,
Though he knows this brings bad luck.
Marvin comes in, sits on the couch,
Says "The stories I could tell you
About this couch!" He never told them
But I'd not mind hearing one tonight.
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