My desk is a boring place.

I sit for hours scrolling through
long lists of emails, service requests;
barely enough coffee inmy cup
to erase the blur from my screen.

Ahh, my desk is a
boring place.

There’s a cat on my calendar that
stares at me in aperpetual state of
nervous anticipation,
as if awaiting my next movement
that it might spring out of view
and hide beyond the edge of it’s page.

But it doesn't- it sits and
gawks unmoving.

Outlook pings...

Yet another printer is down.
The same printer from last week.

What an absolute headache
printers are. But, at least it
relieves me of my desk.

My desk is a
boring place

When I return I may write a
line or two, but don't expect
too much.

Not from this poem.

This poem is a
boring poem.

© Nathan A. Brock