The Table

Would warmth wooden? Across the pale blond shades of curtains hanging low, whisps drape gently on a circular shape. Coffee cup rings and a rusty tin plate. Underneath splinters there’s a distant marked flow. Old oak water comes running from the cold. Hurry in – keep that out. It’s shut up safe in a fiery bout.

But when things get muddled and life gets sticky, I go where the wood stays dry.

Solid legs will keep me afloat with the wild eyed wood of my table boat.

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