She has gone, her desk
cleansed of scent
No more idents.
Nothing to load the stapler-
Paper,
Unhappily clean
covering the formica
spurning scribbles and notes;
take up a pen
and bruise its white.
Day Before
the desk buzzed with work-
Post-Its swarmed over the keyboard
that has been taken,
along with monitor and mouse
along with ink and pen
Now all clear at the terminal
Just dust left
and the empty space
on the chair
is distractingly bare
And space, space so loaded
Without her
Though she is just down the hall.