They are still fighting
over that table.
The meaningless little thing
that sat in the back room.
The room that they were
never in.
The kid's room.
It's old,
scratched,
dinged.
Right here is where
I left a glass all night.
See the ring? No one
cared about it then.
Just a little veneered slab
in the corner.
Now it is The Table.
That Table.
Ballyhooed.
Beloved.
Sacred like old memories.
Brought back by the shovelloads
of Earth
in a newly filled grave.
4 comments:
I wrote this quickly and I know that it could be better. the stanza was crystal clear in my head, but seems a bit of a jumble now. I just wanted to show how death, and memories make people care about stuff after the fact.
Hi Chris,
The first stanza has great tone and story telling elements. It's ironic how "things" become significant when people break apart, isn't it? And it's never really about the table, it's really about the power struggle. You capture this well... especially in the last line.
I think the idea that sprouted this poem is still crystal clear, and very telling of our being. I also like that you've chosen a table as the subject matter, with wonderful images like the glass ring on its surface. It was used, beat, and left alone, still staying sturdy all along the way. I love the use of the word "ballyhooed" too. Perfect for the moment in how it kind of rolls of the tongue with absurdity.
There's a lot going on here and I'm impressed. The last line of the first stanza really sets the tone for the poem.
I like how the question you asked is immediately answered in the same line yet through enjambment takes on new meaning with the next line.
The last stanza really brings this poem together. I like the contrasting image of the dirt filling the grave yet the table is being uncovered by it. Awesome stuff.
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