I wrote some fresh poetry here. Or something. I feeling particularly inspired by a particular individual. So many mountains of thanks to them, and He who gives me words.
Tables.
I have a thing for them.
Not a monster-like thing.
It’s the kind of thing
that’s just wedged
in my brain.
I can’t get it out.
Table legs.
Tables have four legs.
Those legs hold card games
and meals and homework.
They halt the table from
splintering to the floor.
The table can be a table
without them.
That sounded wrong, didn’t it?
It is.
I am a table.
Actually.
Well,
my life is.
It holds board games and
conversations both soft and
heavy-laden. It holds
fingers tapping out words and
dendrites working. It also
holds lightsabers and
filled journals. It has lots of
hearts and wheezing laughs
and teary tissues and
the polish of an otherworldly
varnish.
I have four table legs.
They keep me from
turning to kindling.
One of them is
my Mom.
This table leg
is etched with teary
laughs and sparkly colours
and chocolate milks.
It’s braced with
whisks and keyboards
and inky pens.
And a lot of
scrapbooks.
This table leg
has the otherworldly
varnish too. It likes
reflecting the kitchen’s
light. It stands
between the Table
and the cold floor.
But it hasn’t banished
screw drivers.
This table leg
wasn’t replaced
when the table was
disassembled
and packed and shipped
across the sea.
But it didn’t get
packed either.
Y’know?
Mom is like that.
She’s my table leg.
In one way or another,
we’re bolted
together.
November 7, 2016