OVER TABLES
On that day the table was rustic, rough hewn
in a Texas pub made to look like England you asked
“what are you passionate about?”
I was surprised, slow to answer.
On this day the answers hid beneath our covers
shouted “boo!” at me and jumped
from the van, eager to fill the bag and box you tenderly
prepared between “Arthur” and breakfast, running to gather
paper expressions of love in containers made by love.
We sit at table still.
Conference table by morning, dinner table by night
and I hear your question again and look at you and
know my answer without hesitation.
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