Martin Chambers

Martin Chambers Header


My mate Jeffery runs performance workshops for businessmen,
‘Achieve your potential leadership’, shit like that,
He says,
‘Your desktop is the window to your soul’.
On my desktop the in-tray overflows,
with bills, tax receipts, junk mail leaflets of interest.
Next to it, a stack of reused A4 paper,
handwritten quotes from the radio,
or half poems, scribbles,
things I am working on or printouts of some joke
that seemed funny at the time.
Books, old and new, a thesaurus, yesterday’s newspaper,
some magazines unread.
A cup of pens. Six pencils.
Paperclips. Who uses those thesedays?
An apple core, withered. That must have been some time ago.
It dehydrates atop the photo of a gorilla in Rwanda,
big eyed and coffee stained from the ring of my cup.
There’s a lot of dust.
Note books.
Elastic bands.
A box of stamps.
Old screws and a piece of wood.
Where did that come from?
My other desk. The one inside.
It has your picture. Not much else.
Your voice,
your smile,
a movie as you turn and flick your hair,
in answer some question about nothing.
Your eyes,
your laugh.
Your tears.
Each evening at close I sweep to clean the desk,
and fill to overfull the rubbish bin beside.
Yet each morning, there you are again.
Your picture on my desk.