The Coffee Table 2
That was no fabled coffee table
Just an ordinary four legs and a glass top
that he would never take credit for designing.
It became a master piece by his touch
And his head resting on it was too much
to handle even for an inanimate thing.
And he wanted me to restrain.
I talk of distant roads, lanes,
tile roof houses and court yards with
singing birds and the one
playing dice under a sun shade
hoping he would get the hint
He did. He asks to describe
the lamenting girl when her
earthen pot breaks.
Folks are so good at it.
The coffee table stands witness
to the tears of the narrator,
not shed for her.