The table waits,
cradling the nail he
meant to hammer in that afternoon, but,
lost, on his way to the fridge, he
never now will fix.
Wasted in waiting,
for a blow that never comes
though
unexpected falls elsewhere.
The busted leg, its
grain split open waits
to catch every passing friend and
every time reminds
of missing piece.
I just submitted this for workshopping in my poetry class, so thought I'd share it with you all :-)
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