The Kitchen Table, Or Something Like It

The DMV counter, slick and cool,

its faux-woodgrain, a cruel

impression of a tree that never grew.

My finger traced a loop, then two,

and found the chip, a tiny crater,

revealing dark beneath, a true

pain, a wound for later.

It was that same dull swirl, that same bad choice,

from Grandma's kitchen table, her strained voice

calling me to eat, to take my seat.

How many meals, how many arguments, how many feet

kicked underneath that cheap veneer?

It held them all, year after year.

And here it is again, a common shame,

this surface, always wearing someone's name

in faint, invisible grease.

No peace.

Just this cold, hard, plastic lie,

reflecting back a lonely sky.