Sneaking into the Poet’s Desk © A. Jones 2007 (with a nod to Billy Collins) When he isn’t looking, I crawl into the top drawer from the back. It’s dark, so I turn on my booklight and begin rummaging through his papers. Here is what he keeps most handy, the grocery list of ideas, scribbled on a dry cleaning receipt. The list is called, What would happen if…? and in it he explores the fascinating trajectory of very small, but suddenly important, events, tying the start to the finish like corners of a hobo's handkerchief with nothing but the necessaries contained within. I take pictures of it with the camera hidden in my necklace. Next is a fledgling poem drafted on a theme-related cocktail napkin about the secret lives of waiters. I take this, and replace it with the prize from a Cracker Jacks box. Clambering over pencils, sharp and dull, post-it notes, a nail file, several paper clips and a wristwatch, I rappel to the top side drawer to excavate the next layer. From these remains I can tell how he cooked, what he ate, and where he buried his dead. But the day to day details elude me and this is what I want. I have to go deeper. Nudging the lock, I spring the bottom drawer and regard its gaping, shadowed mouth. The razor edges of files stare mutely back, ready to paper cut a deal for what lies within. Taking a deep breath I slip into a Pendaflex and in this strange nightdress I am privy to the dance of his most intimate thoughts. I understand his process, and the pulpy lust that underlies craft. I trace the web of experience that taught him his lexicon, the spark of glee that imagines a candle hat. My camera, my pockets, are full; as I climb out of the drawer my hair snags on a rough draft and I have to leave it behind. What will he think, I wonder, when, on the verge of sleep some night soon, he discovers this bright tress tinselling his work in progress? Surely someone brave and intriguing has passed here, someone he’ll look out for in future, as opposed to some local Cindy wanting an autograph. |