I should be in my study as I start
a poem about a bookcase dear to me.
But while I write I travel south on BART,
and arrow west to the vicinity
of office furniture: pale gray, matte black,
veneers of walnut, oak, mahogany,
or module units fastened back-to-back
of neutral synthesized upholstery.

I own a bookcase painted green and red
that decorates my northern study wall.
Its shelves have yellow thumbprints and it’s edged
with painted daisies, buttons, marbles: all
constructed out of whimsy onto wood.
When I’m in charge, all shelves will look this good.