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Three Legged Table
I placed my glass down on the table
next to the leg, curiously laid
upon its heavy, wine-stained surface.
A perfectly fine leg, I noted;
unbolted, removed with some intent.
My host viewed my curiosity
with a casual indifference;
waiting so painfully patiently;
a child, bursting with a sworn secret.
As the evening took its course, more wine
long, dry, wearying conversation,
side-stepping the leg, on the table,
a sly, knowing smirk tainted his face,
an air of superiority.
I became a fly caught in his web
missing the clever trap he had laid.
The professor, much later replaced
the fourth leg of the coffee table.
The several fine Kafka volumes,
earlier, supporting the table,
then restored to their place on the shelf.
Copyright ©
Terry Miller
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