A fork and empty plate,
relics of last night's dinner.
Paint, brushes and thinner,
art never finished at this rate.

A jumbled deck of cards,
a game we had, it was amusing.
A single, lonely sheet of music,
how I wish I was a bard.

The only comb I own,
more a decoration than for combing hair.
Two coins, a single pair,
lucre, life's stepping stone.

A ring, not on my finger,
memories in scratches etched
Things to get off of my chest,
a single photograph of her.
That is all the junk on my desk.