The piles that rhyme

The piles that rhyme.

I shut my eyes, and I am anywhere. Africa, or Weston-super-Mare.
But now my eyes fly open and I see, a room, a chair, a quintessential
me.

My room is somewhat greyer than my dreams, less populated than imagined
lands. The would- be writer sitting all alone. The teacher with his
laptop in his hands.

I have no desk here, just an easy chair; accumulated crap all round my
feet,
Add teaching notes and overhead projections, and loads of books, the
image is complete.

Unread texts I cannot do without, reference books and lesson plans
galore.
None of these are sorted in the least , just dumped in little heaps
around the floor.

I call them piles, these mini towers of Pisa. Leaning , wav'ring! Don't
you fall now please!
On top a cordless phone, a radio; a tray for eating dinner on my
knees

A stapler holds another pile at bay, half a box of baklava its
mate.
The idiot box control has disappeared, eaten by the piles? A shocking
fate.

The piles will all be sorted very soon, next weekend would really make
good sense,
But weekends disappear up their own backsides, they're spent almost as
soon as they commence

Now rubbish being specially magic stuff, expands to fill the space it
occupies
My shed, my car, my bookshelves offer proof, their space maxed-out,
regardless of their size.

Corollary: you tidy up the rubbish, you throw out big black garbage
bags galore
No matter if that's seven bags or thirty, what's left fills up the same
space as before.

Each Sunday I go scrabbling through the piles, to find the notes I need
to start the week
Somehow I always end up printing new ones, the 'hide' is more effective
than the 'seek'

My laptop's hot, my testes are ablaze, the power board between the
piles I chase. The testicles are saved, when the plug is pulled. Oops!
Zapp! My falling cupper takes its place.

Half my footstool's there to rest my legs, half pharmacy, half pens,
half pending tray;
Now that's four halves, the legs take precedence. The rest falls to the
carpet every day.

A family of handkerchiefs have lived, beneath my chair, unwashed, year
after year.
I think there's food like chocolates or nuts, plus plastic bags that
tend to disappear.

Beside my chair, a big cane hamper-thing, lots more 'pending things'
bedeck its lid.
An overflowing cup of coin on top, a squillion bucks worth lying,
partly hid.

Behind the chair the 'bag o mystery', inaccessible - been there for
ages
It could be filled with cash! Or Christmas cards! Or books with broken
spines and missing pages

Across the room I spot two paper hills, two desks are buried there the
legends say;
A teensy path of could get you there last week, but stacks of paper
block the way today.

Around the walls are many many shelves, filled with books and leaning
madly in;
Windows look out on the dogs below, forever racing round, creating
din.

I'm sad to say the dogs are not my friends, I really don't have any
friends sat all.
Sitting here and writing is my life, perhaps we'll call it creative
withdrawal.

So feet up, close the eyes, turn on the mind, summon the Zambezi ,
watch it flow.
I call my group of tourists around me, point to the elephants, and say
'let's go!'