Gazing at potteries,
marred earthen clays,
polished glasses and crystal
cobwebs find their way.
A mouse sinters by,
we see him.
We sit. Elbows resting hard,
on the wood tiled table.
An off balanced leg resides
atop a neatly folded menu~
placed by Marci.
A repair is needed.
The dancing sun
in vibrant revelry
shoots orange translucent beams;
that pierce glass windows.
Flickers of light arrive,
we bounce their reflections
over the tiles-
a forth and back off buttery knives.
But...menus grow weary,
as this table shakes.
We imagined light sabers
where pain is not allowed.
The sun fades, an overstated
curtain call to a starlit darkness.
We didn't believe in mousetraps.
Mice chided the fact.
(Copyright Donna L. Quesinberry-2006)
