Heat Resistance

The light comes in flat and low this morning,

catching the scar where the knife slipped

three years ago.

You were cutting onions or maybe a grudge.

I spilled the dregs of the coffee pot.

It sits in the trench, a dark, bitter lake

resting on the grey pulp

where the fake wood grain has finally quit.

This table was meant to take the heat.

It was built to be wiped clean

with a damp rag and a lack of interest,

but the damage has a way of sinking in.