Jan/Feb 2006 Poetry

New Borders

by Jennifer VanBuren

New Borders

Monday night Scrabble Club
followed Borders when it moved ten minutes
north up York Road out of the city,
and I guess I did too.

I miss the old place.
There are no windows here
to remind us just weeks ago
this floor was grass.

A three-inch screw
lies under the table.

I investigate.
It is a chair screw.

Maybe you would have
figured out from which chair,
but this was enough for me.

None of the chairs
at my table wobble.
The barista boy assures me
it will be fixed.

Nothing wobbles in this place.
Not a single napkin is stuffed
under the table stands,
no coffee splash.


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