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.