Could you write a poem about a standing desk?
The Standing Desk


Two doors down
Standing in the corner
Looking out the window 
Is your desk
Back turned
Wailing at all of us
Wondering why we can’t hear it
Whispering sometimes with secrets for the room

When the door closes, it is particularly loud 
Screaming, screaming mad
Angry and lonely 
Moaning now for us to find its partner 
Groaning now for why, why, why
And only when it hears the occupants in the room questioning and turning to stare is it mollified 

We unplugged it to keep it quiet
Left it tall and high at the position you liked best
Chair tucked neatly under
Gleaming clean and bear, beckoning for the next master 
And when everyone is busy 
Meeting our many meetings
It hums softly (usually that same song you taught it), seemingly content and happy 

People enter, come and go
And the Observer watches and waits for a pause 
Wanting to insert something weird and funny
I glare at it when I come in
It knows, I know.
I know, I know! Shhhhhh! 
“We’re working on it,” I say
It raises a brow at me 
I roll my eyes at it and shake my head
“Not enough!”, it throws at me as I slink out walking backwards 

Searching, I stay out of sight
Looking for its new companion
Specs on hand, omissions at the back of my throat
Someone smart, yet dumb enough
Someone commanding, yet submissive
Someone current, yet mature
Someone good but not too much 
“Someone who will stay,” the desk whispers hopefully 

I grimace and say: 
“I’ll take someone tall enough for the desk!”

It taunts and laughs at me
While the memories flood in 
And I start to laugh too
And the desk and I share a grin 

“Not funny,” I say
The desk shrugs and finally stays quiet 

One day, when everyone was gone, I sneak in and stand before it 
Power it up and press the down button so I can rest my elbows on its smooth surface 
And I look out the dark window
In unison, we share a heavy sigh 
Choked up, I whisper: “A new person will be here soon and I’ll be gone.
Watch over everyone, will you?”
The desk nods quietly, lump in throat 

I take an orange sticker and press it gently underneath as a reminder of its promise 
And then walk two doors down to add one to my own desk before heading home for the night
As the elevator takes me down, the desk scans the empty office, takes a deep breath, and stands at the ready, a white knight brave but trembling, and starts humming your song.