The Table
There is a wooden table
topped with granite black as night
that occupies my thoughts preversely when in sight.
It's hand crafted curves
bend and wane like the sea,
almost dancing, transmuting, engulfing me.
And in the stillness of the night,
it perplexes my eyes;
the light bouncing off the granitetop like a million fireflies.
Or maybe they are termites
feasting fatly on the kill.
spoiling my wooden table while they greedily take their fill.
The table's shape contorts alarmingly
in the black of darkness' fall.
The table wanes consumed by water and I heed it's neptune call.
In a wave, it crashes down
but I dare not look away.
Like a waxing tide it pulls me closer, closer as I lay.
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