My desk and what sonnet

Life is what you make it, they say.

My desk is a mess without a doubt.
There's not a chance of clearing the decks
This side of Christmas.
It thumbs its notes at me; it flouts
My determination to settle my debt
To the waste paper basket, as if this was

Its reason to be.
The karang guni, the collector I am,
Battles the urge to sweep away
The mound of paper - nay, the tree
Cut down to supply a sham
Appearance of a productive day.

I must escape this lethargic maze,
This mire of latitude
And enforce a rule of law, to whit:
Let not pass another day
Of dilatory lassitude.
I'll not have it a single bit;

I'll clean this desk and leave it clear
When I'm left and gone from here.

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  ¶ 4:21 am