Our love is like a coffee-table,
because first the stains are in distinct rings.
I’ve traced their patterns with my fingertips.
Then, the stains become smears and blurs
with time and each cleaning.
It’s not even very good at
its designated function because
when you use the table,
you have to reach down
with each sip and remember a coaster.
And when you come home
after hours of labor
you race to the comfort of the couch
but bump into it, and it leaves
bruises on both your shins.
I don’t know why they bother to call
it a coffee-table and not a tea-table
or, more appropriately,
a small, low little table
for magazines and other junk.
Now, we can’t use it to rest our feet
because it’s gotten too cluttered,
so we just gaze over it
as we flip through commercials,
searching for something real.