You brought Malbec in a Tesco bag,
searched the cupboard for wine
glasses. One had a stain you couldn’t
get out; I admired your trying. You
at my sink, smiling, your hands wet.
It is a funny kind of table. Too small
to hold all the accoutrements required
when two people sit at it together. Still
you always made room for the candelabra.
The table is the color of dying mint; it is
re-constructed wood, loose left leg.
Often, I think that this would be a good
table for writing, for just one person,
but I can’t bring myself to repurpose.
Candle wax from years of dinners spent
with you patterns the surface.
“The Green Table” was previously published in Words Dance.