Barefoot, I pad down the hall,
careful to avoid floorboards
that complain in their dotage.

I stand, unnoticed,
to the side of your office door,
shielded by ornate woodwork
painted white—
time and again.

You lean into the computer,
thick fingers typing sporadically—
half-rimmed glasses slid down
the bridge of your nose,
beads of sweat poised
above your lip.

Strewn with books and papers,
that wooden desk, old as the house,
swallows your stout frame.
“A statement piece,” you said
when I’d asked about it months ago.

The furniture and I
have much
in common.