Tons of fancy office furniture has been moldering in storage since the start of Covid. (Dedicated to Stefanos Chen.)

 

In the bustling heart of the city that never sleeps,
Rise towers where office furniture in silence weeps,
When tired of the hustle, when no longer in demand,
Begins a fantastic journey, strange and unplanned.

On a moonbeam they hitch a ride, quite out of sight,
In the stillness of the cosmos, under lunar light.
Desks of mahogany, chairs of chrome and leather,
Rest in lunar craters, weathered by ether.

Martians with their flying saucers, zipping across the stars,
Collect unwanted filing cabinets, vintage typewriters, seminar chairs.
In Martian living rooms, Earthly furniture finds its place,
An alien curiosity, a touch of the human race.

Swiss chefs with a secret, their recipe quite unique,
Transform the worn-out office tables into gourmet mystique.
As tender Swiss steak, the transformed relics find a plate,
An unassuming dinner, of a furniture's fate.

To China they're shipped, with histories invented,
As faux antique Chippendale, the past reinvented.
These once-neglected pieces, now adored anew,
Bearing false tales of centuries, only if they knew.

And thus, New York City's office castaways,
Travel on their unexpected, surreal pathways.
Once overlooked, now shining in moon's glow,
Or Martian decor, or a meal, or in China's show.