Rosalie Morris
poem
poem
Lost
There’s a desk in here somewhere, barely
visible beneath the numerous objects scattered all over it.
I can’t remember the last time I found
what I was looking for.
What a mess.
Photos on the wall, happy
memories of how things were.
Bookshelves, or something like bookshelves,
made out of boards and old milk crates
hold all the knowledge in this place.
Moby Dick and Don Juan complain that nobody
ever bothered to read them.
But who has the time?