Tthere is a child I used to know who sat,
perhaps, at this same desk where you sit now,
and made a mess of things sometimes.
I wonder how he learned at all . . .

He saw T-Rexes down the hall
and dreamed of trains and cars and wrecks.
He dribbled phantom basketballs,
shot spitwads at his schoolmates’ necks.

He played with pasty Elmer’s glue
(and sometimes got the glue on you!).
He earned the nickname–’teacher’s PEST.’
His mother had to come to school
because he broke the golden rule.
He dreaded each and every test.

But something happened in the fall–
he grew up big and straight and tall,
and now his desk is far too small;
so you can have it. One thing, though–
one swirling autumn, one bright snow,
one gooey tube of Elmer’s glue . . .
and you’ll outgrow this old desk, too.

The Desk by Mike Burch
More poems plus by Mike Burch at
© Copyrights reserved Mike Burch, March 2000