A new desk is always a level playing feild.

Bought then,

Tediously assembled from out of a package,

Complete with the smell of

Mothballs and mouth watering

Step-by-step directions.

Or perhaps,

Purchased whole-sale

From a recently Widowed mistress.

It is where war is waged.

Pitting the

Punctual clock’s,

Against the

Precise calendars.

 It is a solar system.

(With texture)

It is the next greatest monument,

In any room.

(Second only to the marvelous rug.)

But far above the

Shady curtains.

The desk can support the weight

Of any

Pen.

Or the mass of any

Brave being,

Daring enough

To use it as

A step-ladder,

(To just barely reach a crooked picture.)

But best of all,

Any desk,

New

Or

Old.

Is  frequently a sight for a usually unseen spectacle.

Where the savage teeth of the written word,

Collaborate with the most stubborn of sciences,

While still managing to

Coexist

Peacefully,

With a multitude of mathematic coefficients.

Rivers of spilled white out

Can easily be mistaken for ancient cave-paintings,

(Or white blood, to the un-trained eye)

But the piles of leftover eraser shavings,

(Carefully swept by impatient hands)

Are quickly determined to be

In-accurate artifacts.

Of an otherwise very authentic,

Exaggeration.