THE TABLE

What can a table do by itself
against the roundness of the earth?
It already has enough to do allowing nothing to tumble,
allowing the chairs to converse softly
and in turn to come together on time.

If time blunts the knives,
dismisses and brings diners,
varies the topics, the words,
what can the pain of its wood do?

What can it do about the cost of things,
about the atheism of the supper,
of the last supper?

If the wine is spilt, if bread is wanting
and people grow absent,
what can it do but remain motionless, rooted
between hunger and the hours,
with what intervenes though it should wish?