The kitchen table broke today.
The small wood fibers had worked so hard
to hold the cold, dark metal in place.
They had born the seasons, held the weight
of pumpkins waiting to be carved, steaming casseroles
and Christmas cookies left to cool.
One of the drilled holes grew tired
of being mistaken for a foot rest, of
fists pounded, of forced expansions for feasts unasked for
and it gave way.
The other held on as long as it could, but
left alone, its former strength seemed
only a liability. Presumed upon until
Red flowers spilling to the floor.