Wearing Thin

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.


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