where does the table go?
he asked
I barely remembered his name,
Joe or John or J-something–
he’d shown up with the others,
the ones they’d sent to do the job
the table? I replied,
stalling for time
wishing for more of it, so much more time
the table whose surface told
our story
the blonde wood glowing in the dimming light of evening
the fork marks from an excited toddler
banging his utensil up and down
overeager for that next bite
the pencil marks that were never quite
completely erased
from one report or another
or perhaps that year of Algebra II
the surface of it still cool to the touch
just as it was all those times
I lay my head on it, my face hot from the tears
I’d cried
I can’t remember all the reasons now
but today I know why they fall,
all the memories etched into its surface
and the time has come to let it go
time to open my fist and stop holding on
to all the things
and find comfort in the memories
playing non-stop inside my head
and heart
and while some of them are muted
and a tad out of focus
I can still feel the cool of the table
long after the the sun has set
and the truck pulls away
and the door is closed one last time
I Might Need A Nap 