The Life Recordings of a Wooden Table

I live in the shadows of passed childhoods

Paint smears and pen marks on my glossy surface faded by years

And days.

I live in the vulnerable hopes of seven names, carved on my legs

By a love struck teenage girl, and in the pain

As each one was left in its turn

Crossed out.

I live in scarring shattered glass and wine

Blood-red with the crudeness of heartbreak

And in the suspenseful touch of a cell phone, cold against my skin,

Failing to ring after the fight.

I live in coffee rings, overlapping,

And the nocturnal, ceaseless mumbles and typing

Of a tired mind.

I live in the silent rest of a cane against my splintered edge

And the trembling fingers of age

As it knits.

I live in polishes, wipes, scratches and slams.

I live in promises, murmurs, cries

And tears.