Positing like a fingerprint stain on a bronze bust in a ragged swivel chair,
i stare at the space and
  paper filled scribbles lining my nest;
the Menu from "Sweet Tooth Bar-B-q" complains blankly at my skeleton, as I sip under a caffeine stain on my nose,
a telephone long idle and a half-filled bottle of aspirin in case,
Monet on the wall, cheap copy and all, surface
in my side eye and compose the most beauty that lies here I suppose.
Who asks whose ancient desk?
whose home?
My only  answer is "who knows?