Green Table

I see the beautiful, shining sun

through dirty, factory windows.

I have to be here, my dear.

I slept like s**t.

Woke up for work…

hungover

tired

weak

overweight and out of shape.

I hold my head in my left hand.

I’ve got no love to give.

I gave it all to the bottle.

 

Air conditioners, fans, and lathes

drone and thrum and hum.

They evanesce and compound in my mind,

becoming one.

That sound?

I’m drowning in silence, buried by my thoughts.

 

I sit and stare

at the walking advertisements

going by.

I’m laughing at the conversations

and matching facial expressions.

I’m laughing at the onslaught of profanity.

I take a bite of cereal

and a drop of milk runs down my chin.

A machine repairman drops his flashlight on the floor.

It does not break.

 

My boots are dirty and dusty

and weigh like cinder blocks.

This floor that my feet rest upon is filthy.

It’s a mess.

Littered with crumpled and tattered leaves,

rejects blown away from the collective.

The yellow lines marking the guided lanes are

faded and broken in multiple spots.

A discarded, fluorescent green sticker clings to the floor,

close to one of the lines.

 

I step outside with the crowd

to feel the glorious, toasty breeze.

I watch them open up their phones,

light up them smokes,

and proceed to ignore the world around them.

My eyes scan the horizon.

I look down to my left.

There is an ashtray.

This ashtray is brimming with remnants and relics.

There are two, faded Marlboro packs.

Upon further inspection,

I spot two more.

They are joined by a Basic and a Seneca.

All of them

consumed, discarded, weathered, and forgotten.

 

I escape and reconvene to a green table.

It is heavy and well built.

Fading paint shows its age and use.

It is a place of rest.

A gathering place for literature’s best.

A stopping point for discourse.

Just another corner of the world

filled with anger, pain, joy, and elation. 

Author's Note

I hope you like.
Later-
J.P.