Sometimes we eat at a broad, thick farmhouse table,
with drawers above our laps
where cold, bone-handled knives lie waiting.
with drawers above our laps
where cold, bone-handled knives lie waiting.
Sometimes we eat at a bird-legged, bistro table,
knowing one slip
could send everything crashing.
knowing one slip
could send everything crashing.
Sometimes at my parents' chipped formica table
which once seemed so vast
my brother and I'd play ping-pong on it.
which once seemed so vast
my brother and I'd play ping-pong on it.
Sometimes at an antique rosewood one
which has this central piece
that opens out of nowhere like it's flowering.
which has this central piece
that opens out of nowhere like it's flowering.
Richard Meier, 2011
