what would the tables where we dine
tell us if they were able to speak,
what tall tales would they reveal—
whispered secrets, gossipy truths,
stories easily sprouted and morphed
troubles told with anguished worry,
pain laid bare with hope of easement,
tears flowing like puddles of rain,
salty sorrow from grieving hearts
giggles, chuckles, and sassy sniggers,
resurrected recalls of previous pranks,
laughter so brassy and raucous
the table’s legs rattled with glee
and, oh, the kinds of food and drink
laid upon the welcoming space,
lavish festivities, cauldrons of joy,
and, yes, the days fraught with paucity,
grim remnants of greenish leftovers
if the table were allowed to speak,
listeners would most certainly learn
of treasured delights and savored fun—
assorted pets circling the table to beg,
small children hiding out beneath
to seek their solitude and play
and, yes, the table would have complaints,
tired of pastry crumbs and coffee splotches,
sticky fingerprints, torn-off bread crusts,
emptied soda cans, foul-smelling beer bottles,
dying tea bags left to gasp alone in their cups
how strange it must seem to a faithful table
when folks gather for a Thanksgiving meal
to never consider a pause to be grateful
for that flattened ledge they name as table—
the silent, inert gift that never stops listening,
the one willing to bear what’s placed upon it,
always available for another hearty laugh
or one more telling of a lengthy tale
© Joyce Rupp
POEMS
(Poem from The Cosmic Dance)
