Dusty Leaves
May 6 2013


A desk chair
of close-grained wood
darkly stained.
The patina of age
on the slatted back
were countless hands have gripped,
tinged by sweat and skin.
The contoured seat, with its worn finish,
on a creaky swivel
on a broken tilt
on sticky wheels.

Back when a government office
was green-walled, bad fluorescents,
with black phones, on boxy desks
on cracked linoleum
with curling edges.

And a stunted plant
in the corner,
big glossy leaves
pale with dust.
It survives desiccation, neglect,
the cool breeze
from the constantly opening door.

Bureaucrats
who file paper, process claims
and were never trained
in horticulture,
someone else's job.

I take my place
in a long disorderly line
of petitioners, and supplicants.
Admire the fortitude
of this indestructible plant,
indifferently unloved.
And knowing it wouldn't take much,
imagine the beauty
it might become.

I heard the phrase "dusty leaves", in a context I now completely forget. But it immediately evoked an image of a neglected plant: broad-leafed, dull green, in the corner of an old-fashioned office. I see a dingy bare-bones place, with those heavy wooden chairs, sturdy furniture, old technology; before anyone had heard of ergonomics, and when civil servants made do.

I had no idea where this was going when I stared to write: it was simply an exercise in description -- which is more about the wordsmith showing off, and rarely makes a very readable poem. But when I found myself identifying with this humble but indestructible plant, I think I found the key to the poem.

I like the word-play here (and "play" is the perfect word, since it's a lot of fun!): just on the verge of being over-done, but not enough that it gets in the way.