At This Table Arlyce Menzies
The future is uncomfortable at this table. It feels bolted to the floor and stationed in this sticky place. Hey you! Take me back to the room. I am drunk and tired. The chair is a unicycle— I can’t stay on it. Ha ha ha! The world is too fat to fit out the door. What to do now but watch? It doesn’t work to hope this through. Hope is beached in the bean soup, its forehead to this table.