Under the Lip

My pen just rolled off the edge,

a dark, quick dart to the floor.

So down I went, on my hands,

a clumsy bend, nothing more.

And there it was, a whole new view,

beneath the cafe's sturdy spine.

A universe of chewed-up goo,

a sticky, forgotten design.

Dried gum, like ancient fossil towns,

stuck fast to varnished, grimy wood.

A spiderweb, with tiny crowns

of dust, where no one understood

the secret life of forgotten bits.

A scrawl of names, a nervous hand,

some childish scratch, the way it fits

a moment, lost throughout the land.

I found my pen, a silver gleam,

but stayed a second, maybe two.

Just watching that peculiar dream,

of things we're never meant to view.

And wondered what small pieces stay

from every person sitting here.

The silent stuff we throw away,

or hold in quiet, dusty fear.