An Organized Desk Means An Organized Mind

I can’t find it, of course.

It must be buried,

A kind of virtual corpse

Under or amidst that pile

Of papers, that horrendous clutter

Which surely must disorganize my mind,

Sets me off bounding, like a frightened hare,

Into the underbrush of a billion ideas,

First one way, then the other.

If you graph it, it’s like a scribble

An abstract meandering across the page

Of life’s total lack of meaning.

O, don’t tell me there’s more to it than that.

I really hate when people say

That evolution is the way up.

To the clouds perhaps, into the mist.

Well, maybe that is where my papers went.

Should give up. But first

I’ll look under this pile on my desk.