Not so grotesque

I sit at my desk;
My life is not at all grotesque.
Its good,
in a momentarily sense.

Window pane next to my elbow;
thanks to the assiduous window cleaner,
its stark clean, glassy, clear blue.
Yellow sticky notes,

stick out of files
and thick volumes.
Coffee is getting cold,
its last vapors

forming a hazy pattern
on the glass pane.
An ashtray,
I don't use it.

A dogeared notepad;
a deranged pen,
full of ink.
I write on it.

I sit at my desk;
My life is not so grotesque.

P.S.: Thanks Mr. Brodsky