This Table

This Table

Worn, companionable
in its roundness and size,
has borne its burdens lightly;
poems, letters, meals, of course,
forty years of cats,
one who was named here
for the wing-shaped patches
on his back
and the goodness of his heart.
"Gabriel," I said,
and so he became.
Lately, friends encircle it,
widening its capacity,
exchanging gifts and poetry,
stories, thoughts and laughter.

Like others of its tribe,
it will outlast my time,
could be reborn as pulp or landfill,
or discovered in a thrift shop,
on a curb.
My wish for it would be
that it might find another home,
bear the weight of someone's cat,
of soup bowls, books, a writing pad.

Rest your arms on its surface,
not-so-distant one,
look up from the book to window light,
a face you love
or simply on your presence there,
thinking, blest be this quiet,
my place therein.