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,
never shuddering in hesitation.
Its piled books and empty cups
never creep to the edge.
The blameless table.
The utilitarian table.
I am envious of the lamp.
It doesn’t mind
pouring light
or being left in darkness.
And the wise bookcase—
it holds all the books’ arguments.
The paintings don’t rage at the
chairs.
The bed is content
whether made
or left a mess.
This house full of objects—
unconcerned
whether they are extensions of me
or not.
