Underneath My Table

                Underneath  My  Table.

Underneath  my sturdy  Mahogany  table,

No mystery, they are   veering around?

I  am  enslaved by  the  writing  pad  on  table,

Yet   gripped  by    tabula rasa, now.

The  papers  crushed  or  crumbled

Fritter in a playful mood, as if  caterwauling:

Perpetuated  by the  fan above rotating,

They are the fertile   imagination  crushed.

Still every  letter folded    within   paper,

Every idea  lurking  within the   white

abandoned, looks  for  a  space out.

I remould them, recreate  them, now

They  shine  atop   with an elevated 

Status, a   new   title, new  flip.