| KITCHEN TABLE Here is really a table, a magazine, placemats with blue hearts appearing, small pile of money from the ATM. Cup of tepid coffee, weak despite American flags and bald eagles, a bottle of antidepressant herbs. Also the cap of my black pen is waiting. I can help none of it. If I swept all of it to the floor, the blue hearts would break and the cup; the herbs would scatter false feelings of lightness and calm across the kitchen for the dogs to eat. It would be too late: The naked wood is engraved by routed grooves and the grain is brave old oak. So it stands apart, different from the other tables of the house, because of the heavy grain and the ring where a simple vase of sweetpeas used to stand. |
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