The Poet on his Desk

Oh, you wonderful desk of mine!
I've been writing on you for months,
but haven't really looked at you.
I think it's time to change that.

You've got a few scratches on your surface.
I remember coloring them in
with black pen,
back in high school.
The marks are still there;
I hope they don't hurt you.

I couldn't write without you.
Although I guess that's a bit of an overstatement.
Maybe I could write on the dresser,
or the shelves,
the walls,
the coffee table,
or maybe the regular table.
But you're the one I write on.
I really do appreciate your support.

Most of your drawers are still empty,
from when I cleaned you out a couple months ago.
I keep papers and writing stuff in the middle drawer,
and there's the one where I keep my colognes
and hygienic things like that.
(I just checked in another drawer and
found a slip of paper from an old fortune cookie.
It reads:
"Discontent is the first
necessity of progress."
Deep stuff, huh?)
And I won't even mention
what's in that other drawer...

I just realized you don't have a name, desk.
Mind if I give you one?
It should probably be something gender neutral,
since I've never found any nether parts on you.
(Where do baby desks come from,
come to think of it?
Do they start out as stools?)
But anyways,
I think I'll call you Sam, or Jimmie, or Jerri.
Don't really like any of those, though...
I've always liked the name "Veronica."
Not very gender neutral, but really quite
a lovely name. I'll keep it!
How do you like that, Veronica?
(silence)
Marvelous!

Oh, and Veronica? One last thing:
you may have noticed this poem
(if you can call it that—it's a
pretty rough-edged, poorly thought out,
horribly colloquial little thing, ain't it?)
is quite a bit different than what's
come before
in my writing.
You'd almost think... no, but you wouldn't
think that, would you?
Oh Veronica, how scandalous!
But I digress
(you naughty girl!).
I feel, deep in my most deeply-deepest-deep,
that I've reached a creative impasse.
My Inspiration has gone limp
(how embarrassing!),
my Muse will not speak to me
(how dreadful!),
and the most infantile projections
spew from the pen in my hand
(how very messy!).

The point
is this:
the style
I've used
(hitherto)
in these
poetical
scribblings
of mine
has come
(that is,
to seem)
to seem
almost hopelessly
affected in a way
that strikes me as
horribly grotesque
and puerilely (yes,
truly) amateurish.

I should like to remedy this
(no other word for it) defect.
It's a matter of style, you see.
Rhyming quatrains have lost
their fun (for me).
(for now)
Call this an experiment.
I'd really appreciate your
input,
Veronica.

I have a feeling this was a failed experiment,
but we'll just wait and see what the judge says.
The worst they can do
is hang me,
in their mercy.

And now to close it is the time,
with this couplet set to rhyme.