At the Desk

Long days at work and my back gives
so that my hands and feet
don’t care for much                 but sitting.
So I write
when the words surface.

I have the same things on my desk
I’ve had for years:          same books,          same lamp,
cigar boxes filled with things,
same pens.            I have a watch
my wife gave me when I started doing concrete.
It has a fabric band and a simple face.
It sits near a small statue of a bird dog staring down
at my hands
and that jaw bone I found along the Mississippi
years ago. 

I don’t often check the time when I write, but still the watch
has earned its place                  on the desk.

R. E. Danielson is a poet of the Mississippi River. He lives in rural Iowa and is working to complete a collection of poems.