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The Life Of A Picnic Table

some might say we are
wasting time, reclined
atop the weathered picnic
table that your father
built for us in our fifth
year of marriage.

the water-sealed wood has
long since etiolated by
a decade of sunlight and
chili dogs and late night
romps with beer and smoke
and kisses stolen ‘neath the shade.

the legs are steady and
mud stained, with tumors
of red clay markings surging
up as if from the ground,
rooting dirt wood to Earth,
nourishing nothing.

and the grass underneath,
always two shades darker
and two inches taller than
the rest of the yard, relishes
its insulated sanctuary below
the sun beaten boards.

another few years and perhaps
i will re-coat the old wood with
a few strokes of fresh sealant
and replenish its youthful timber
fashion of years gone by for
all the years to come

or perhaps, i will watch as
Dixie’s rot sets in, finally,
and hope that these tired
planks will grow old
and senile as gracefully
as you and i.

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7 thoughts on “The Life Of A Picnic Table

  1. I love this one. Well-crafted. After, I sat reflecting on the fact that my senility is progressing on an anything but graceful path, perhaps anti-graceful; whereas my tables seem to be quite graceful in their old age.

    • after decades of music training and playing i’ve discovered one very important fact of music….and in most cases poetry too.

      the two most important notes in any song are the first and the last. it’s all about that punchline.

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