the oak TV tray
holds a still life,
a catalog of Great Courses
topped by a book about energy coherence
held closed by a pair of oval glasses
missing one nose piece,
a wrapper of bright yellow-gold and black
housing my half-eaten raw food breakfast bar,
an inch away my grey mug of coffee
painted, a brown owl and wedge wood trees,
one yellow highlighter going dry
touches a small black desk lamp unplugged,
cord snaking about, or a thread perhaps
running under a subscription card and envelope
inviting me to join an association, have access to
words of a deceased psychic,
two black pens, one disposable,
the other refillable,
a black leather journal
under printouts of notes for articles already written,
a small note book of reminders:
user names, passwords, receipt numbers,
topped by a book about handwriting
to improve the quality of life,
which is beneath a printout about retiring wealthy
(cosmic humor)
and a book of daily, supposed, inspirations,
capped with a card picturing two wolves,
used as a bookmark, now and then,
all arising and disappearing countless times
while I have been writing,
and now I know that change
has nothing to do with appearance
although things, when acted on, appear changed,
maybe change is a misnomer,
and whatever is, despite appearances, is new,
even a still life