We were going to sell the table.
It’s big where it is,
with those elbowing edges
coming after us
and corners
that force us into corners.

But we decided not to. Instead,
we said,
we’d rub down the surface,
get rid of each burn and dent
and moon of stain
and the stuck inch of newsprint.

But we’ve not even been able
to start cleaning our old table.

It’s had too many babies
changed on it,
too many trumpets
and spoons whanged on it,
too many whales and witches
drawn on it
to do anything with it;

there’s been too much homework and grief
dumped on it, too much laughter
heard round it, too many candles
burned down over it,
to do anything else but leave it there,
in the awkward place it’s in,

elbowing us with its edges,
reminding us.

Copyright: from High Tide (Salt, 2010), © Robert Hull 2010, used by permission of the author

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