Of the first spinning place. Some said the side
Others church bench, chunk of stage, courthouse wall.
Drag it from his swamped fields after a storm.
Left. It belonged to no one and was ours.
Pits, coffee rings, the impress of elbows,
You can’t run your hand across the surface
And a splinter that always finds the hand.
World: this table, so worn down that it shines.
It’s hard to keep clean. We all eat off it.
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