Cut from cloth

The dinner table can't take it anymore
Waiting on its own
For someone to come home
Legs broken too many times
still out of luck
Even its top is down
Under the weight of the blankets where we used to play house
folding like hands before supper

No one comes home
They all eat alone
or with strangers on or along the road
strangers still when they come home
Legs broken, on its back lying
Like a tortoise dying
or a bug or a sheep
or asleep
Assemblies of us
could never mend us
dinner was
never satisfactory
always plates full of sheets of ice
sliced thinly
prayers said with closed eyes that
remained that
as no one asked
for seconds
we chugged hard at the hands
held glasses full of hours
Dessert is sweetest
when the table is turned
to deserts and broken glasses
Can i go to my room yet.
Can i leave this house
Can i hang around
with the branches
Or among the willows to catch their leafs
like tears in my pillowcase
And use them for what we are
Down
Wound by blankets likes drapes
where we used to play house
Cut from the same cloth