When fashion and decoration
conquer even the dinnerware,
I ask why?

Why should we care
if the dish is fine china,
bone china, or stoneware?

Does it really make
a difference if the plate is made of
the finest porcelain
or of the cheapest clay?

While the table cloth
and the fine floral painted plates
might pay for the beauty of the place
and please the sight

does a dish really buy the appetite?
I ask why?

Past times once,
the table held
the remembered essence of
family laughter and sharing
meals made with a mother's love.

While she was alive,
the table was like a quilt,
keeping the monsters at bay,
forging a treaty against destruction.

But without her to tuck the corners,
to smooth the wrinkles,
to kiss the forehead gently
and wipe away the tears,
it became a blackboard;
detailing fault, listing blame,
and seeping them with the misery
of all the lost seconds.

To couch it in unmistakable terms -
it's the lair of an untamed beast;
what a leaf does while fermenting
in a decomposing heap;
and the tool of a psychiatrist.

It's an indirect expression;
a bending of the head;
a lurking or a hiding,
with ambush imminent;
'tis when the sword is lowered for attack.

It's the frame the barley
is malted on
when brewing my favourite drink.

'Tis the board on which
the soggy pulp's
turned into paper sheets.