It was rumored to have been made from the tree
Of the first spinning place. Some said the side
Of a Spanish slaver spit from the sea.
Others church bench, chunk of stage, courthouse wall.
A widow swore her grandfather had helped
Drag it from his swamped fields after a storm.
One leg longer than the others, it leaned
Left. It belonged to no one and was ours.
Years pressed down on it with tobacco ash, peach
Pits, coffee rings, the impress of elbows,
A knife-mark widened by a thousand thumbs.
You can’t run your hand across the surface
Without passing through three or four fables
And a splinter that always finds the hand.
Such a common thing in an uncommon
World: this table, so worn down that it shines.
There’s room here. There’s never any room here.
It’s hard to keep clean. We all eat off it.
