FRIDAY NIGHT PIZZA

UNPACKING THE OFFICE

UNPACKING THE OFFICE

Six months beyond

the loaded boxes,

a mirror sits forlornly on the floor,

cornered by a tin watering can

and an empty photo frame.

The mirror leans back,

rejecting the reflection

of a further corner

conquered by metal--

heavy filing cabinets

looming over chipped silvery paint,

an aluminum cake pan,

a plastic tub full of wax,

gray and ice-scented

as cutting words.

Once, I dropped a butter knife.

It bounced off my big toe.

A week later, the nail purpled,

turned as dark as thunderstorm skies

and fell off.

The pain of this room bruises

my ego and my heart

with the same heaviness.

There's no easy cure.

I tip one cabinet on end,

wiggling, wrestling, wooing it

to the far wall, where it rests

beside a clear shelf.

That's a battle won;

there are more.

The pen is my sword.

I label the cabinet drawers,

inventory their contents,

draw a map to guide my strategies.

One by one, the leaden towers fall

into place.

I am mighty.

My efforts uncover a patch of carpet,

thick with longing for sunlight.

I slide open dusty curtains

just as a box of long-forgotten receipts attacks.

I stab at it with unreserved carelessness

and toss it into the black plastic trash bag

at my feet.

So many pieces of cardboard,

candy wrappers,

bits of styrofoam packing peanuts

are imprisoned the same way...

These incremental defeats

are too much for my enemy.

The last of the mess surrenders.

My offiice is feng-shui clean.

I open the window.

Across the room, a solitary nail

volunteers its support.

That's where the mirror goes.

It faces the the lake,

the mountains,

the neighbor's trees.

It's been a long, hard-fought war,

but there's a reward.

Peace is reflected

in the mirror's eyes.