Unfinished

I dropped the fork and had to go down,

pressing my cheek against the cold linoleum.

Under the table, the world is all splinters.

The plywood is raw and smells like old grease.

I ran my fingers along the underside

and found a grey wad of gum,

hardened like a stone around a screw.

Nobody bothers to sand the parts

that the customers aren't supposed to see.

It’s rougher down here, and more honest.