Table
I admit I’m not the best
at cleaning house, but
the papers on the table
aren’t even mine. I look
in the mirror the morning
after paying rent, at the lines
on my face and brush
my long hair. I live
in memories of youth.
I once built a table
for my record player. Its legs
were too big for its size,
but I treasured it
for the songs played.
I had dreams
as I listened to the soft refrain
of Wing’s My Love,
and visions of freshman romance.
Tiles on the kitchen floor
need replacing,
but I know it’s
my turn to vacuum.
Thoughts of unfinished business
crowd my waking mind.
I listen to ringing in my ears
and look out the window
at cloud-cluttered sky.
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