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.