Thursday, June 24, 2010


The drinks were cold,

melting into rotten brown tables

with cracks identifying rich history.

Making a new finish,

surfacing the wood with hickory hearts

and stained smiles.

Forks turn toward one another,

puncturing the surface only to create

a mark never to be forgotten.

Conversations leaning, chairs moving,

eyes drifting toward the unknown.

The room fades as prongs gently touch.

The strength of metal draws like species

together, however guilt forces them away.

What a shame that similar utensils cannot

tango at dinner time. 

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