Sweet table that my mother got
(as an early Christmas present)
to fill the vacant spot
where once stood columns
that held a glass top
broken by little weasel tot.
Sitting there peacefully;
your comforting light
shed not so bright
joyfully, happily --
With nary a scratch on
your new face of glass
surrounded by wood, as
mom pointed out, innocently
hoping that any new damage
shall evermore pass
By a mocoyo banging on your
face or 'four wheels' or
monster trucks crashing
into your elegant legs.
You do not know what you
are in for, beautiful table.
I shall enjoy you in this state
as long as possible and remember
how once you gave me
inner peace knowing that someday
My boys will grow up
all too fast. Someday
I will miss these
times of banged up,
bruised,
colored,
walked on,
beat up on,
jumped on furniture.
These precious
memories, little weasels, shall
last. Like a long lost
love note, the evidence
will be there carved, torn, or
colored. It is, after all,
only furniture.
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