I Am Envious Of The Table

(c) 2005

I am envious of the table; the way it stands, resolute
in the north, the south, the east and west of it.
The table is rarely restless, never inching
toward the back door at sunset, never shuddering
in hesitation, so that the piled books and empty places
never shimmy to the edge and fall. The blameless table.
The ulitarian table. And I am envious of the lamp.
It doesn't seem to mind whether it pours forth light
or is left in it's own darkness. And the bookcases;
they contain all the arguments of the books and the knick-knacks
over priority placement. The paintings don't rage at the chairs
nor ignore the submissive rug covering scars in the floorboards
and bundled dust. The bed too, is satisifed
whether I make it or leave it a mess.
This whole houseful of items, unconcerned about the dimensions
of their existence, about whether they are extensions of me
or are a series of facts standing on their own.