My Desk

It seems I have a messy desk.
I must admit it's so,
But, everything that rests on it
Is in a place I know.

It is a desk quite large you see
And there is lots of space
That would likely go to waste
Without these things in place.

For otherwise I'd have to dust,
Not something that I do
Too willingly it seems,
At least as I've been told, so

I use it to keep organized
The projects that I'm on
With one stack here, another there,
Another over yon

Beside the pottery shards
Picked up out on our place
Beneath the shelf that holds the statue
With the Incan face.

And by the cup that holds the pens
There is a stack of cards
But, that is just the least of them
For I have them in yards

Stuffed in a drawer. From ages past,
They're likely worthless now
But, there's surely a good reason
I hang onto them somehow.

And there are several yellow pads
Each one with different things
Written on the pages there
And to them often clings

A sticky note that I have placed
To mark a certain spot
Or, maybe just to emphasize
Some written, special thought.

And up above, on the top shelf,
Mementos of the past
Or, pictures that the grandkids drew,
The things I want to last.

And of course, there on the floor
Rests a box or two
Or, three or, four or maybe more
That lean somewhat askew.

But, I know what is in each place
And filed within my mind
Is a virtual map of things
I could find even if blind

And if you try to clean my desk
By moving things around
I would be quite upset with you
For things that would ne'er be found.