The Desk

There was desk in a white house

Where papers grew from the gleaming finished surface

Which like a shy child, would peek out from underneath

A flowered cloth, that was sloppily draped over him in a rush,

Yet, only to the child’s dismay was he tucked back under, everyday,

Every time,

He attempted a peek,

And many a day would he dwell on the oppressing thought that,

That old flowered cloth, and all those papers,

Would always conceal his

Beauty.