A/N: This particular poem is written for the Freeverse Frenzie competition on the HPFC forum, poem 18.
Their Tender Little Child
3. Buried in Work
He shook his head
and a sled of papers
slid to the floor.
His wife was there
to pick them up for him.
And then they'd go flying again
because there was just too much
and yet he couldn't find a thing of use
in them
And he'd sigh and take his glasses off
and start cleaning up instead
And find an old coffee-cup
under extensive calculations
and shallow-scribbled notes
or a tie he'd cast off
long ago
or some photos and half-finished letters
under the desk or in some drawer
And he'd put them away again,
thinking he'll have a world of time
to follow,
As he stuck his nose in his papers again.