A Three Cent Poem, and a Table

A Three Cent Poem (And A Table) This table is as cluttered as I As it struggles to stand on it’s legs The fast food bag smells of rotten eggs There’s half full fountain drinks from work And a receipt from a grocery store clerk Telling me to take a survey for a chance to win cash It now sits under an empty Fat Tire full of cigarette ash The penciled sheet of paper with a three cent poem on it sobs Underneath bitten pay stubs from familiar restaurant jobs There’s two cereal bowls who tell me they want a bath And a bottle of all purpose cleaner to clear the path But what’s the point of clearing all the weight off the table, If it will just build up again when I feel unstable? Life is meant to question why