Tuesday, February 25, 2014

This Table

This table served many before I made it my own,
Oak warms food too,
And then one day it was mine,
Taken from an antique store to my kitchen,
I sit there still,
Bumping my knee--catching my thigh on an angular corner,

How many have I invited here to
sit and eat,
sit and think, sit and explain.


I used to paint at this table
Brush aside a sandwich,
or cold coffee,Peel off a slice of watercolor paper,
and do my best imitation of Paul Klee,
Somewhere in the grain must be teal or magenta,
maybe underneath,
Paint brushes have their own agenda on occasion.

Who sits here now?
and who will never appear?
with hands folded or tucked,
resting flat or propped up.

This table recognizes me,
Waits,
Sometimes for my forearms,
This table is my legacy.
It knows what I write,
who I write, why I write,

This table, like me, gets smudged,
newsprint tells more than one story,

This table is all about feeding and finding.

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