That wretched table
Stunted, hunkering low,
Plotting to maim me at the knees,
Gripped by grubby hands and crusty crumbs,
Waiting for me to shrink my self esteem
To match its inferior colored exterior.
I glare, repulsed by its puerile whining.
But that exquisite masterpiece
Sculpted, standing high
Desiring to embrace my extending height,
Adorned with plush cushions and witty remarks,
Encouraging me to experience maturity
With those further numbered in years.
I gaze, entranced by its aged temptations.
The moment has come for a choice to be made.
What shall it be?
Will I weakly surrender to my youth?
Or rise to the ranks of the wise?
The flimsy plates, or the elegant china?
The hollowed plastic, or the smoothed mahogany?
The pesky snickering, or the —
At last, I sit
And all the perturbations of being stuck there once again
Their rough and withered hands
Clasped into my unwrinkled ones
As we say grace
And I thank God for a new beginning.