Another poem, because you've been so good.

[demiurgent]

They remade his office into a conference room.
He had his desk, his chairs, paintings
and posters, maps of Australia,
scenes of his sloop sitting on mooring.
He sold the sloop for lack of use.
Too many days and nights in his corner office
that no longer belongs to him.
They made it a room for teams to meet
inpersonal. Walls, chairs, a table.
A wire basket of pens, a pile of pads.
All things for all people, they say
which makes it nothing. Impersonal.
They even took his whiteboard down.
It was nice, in a blondwood cabinet
rolling slats like a rollaway desk.
Individual, distinct. Like his pipe.
Like the mark on his face
where the mole was removed.
The walls still have hooks
the crannies exposed now.
No bookshelves, no filing cabinets,
no phone or folders or fanfile folio
he used to keep notes in.