Cement City

Dinner Table

My dinner table tells time.

In the early mornings, it is a sundial

A chronograph watch

With long shadows cast by three ceramic mugs

         (All of different sizes

         For the father, mother and child)

And one person at any given time.

As the sun drags over the sky

The wooden table ages in colour

Streaks of light and dark brown run over the scratches

         Like reassuring fingers, and it's not unlike the time

         It's been left outside

Not even a garage sale sticker to its name

For some struggling family

Who didn't care about looks

        To haul it inside.

Afternoons blur with

Pencil tapping, eraser shavings, draining dishes and cooking experiments

A device always

        Perhaps two people sharing the kitchen

        Shuffling alongside the other.

Then evening settles in

The cloak of night that swaddles warmth inside, though

A one-bedroom apartment

         Has plenty of space

For dinner plates to rotate;

Never more than two

         (It's usually the couple)

Who sit opposite of each other

While their kid eats somewhere

        The dinner table can't see

        For it has only two eyes

Marked by cutlery and leftovers.

And then the table is wiped

And the light is turned off

As everyone goes their separate ways

And the dinner table

        Doesn't know how

To gather three plates together

        Has it gone blind?

To not see this coming

How it'll tell time when no one is here

It does not know

As the living room clock

        Is broken beyond repair. 

I couldn't stop thinking about this. Despite being indoors, I've talked to my family less and less. I need to remember to give them a hug tonight.

On a happier note, thank you to my poetry readers for sticking around. It really means a lot that you're reading my poems. <3 I think this is the most people I've gotten at one time (3! 3 constant readers, all in the same day!).