Kitchen table sticky with snail trails
of ice cream from hours ago.
But I am too busy,
or too lazy,
to wipe them up.

Instead I sit at the table, wondering about it.
The cracked formica and rusted chrome.
The yellowing plastic chairs, the silver duct tape holding them together.
How old is this table, really?
Has it lived in Texas longer than I have?
Would it be offended if I had the chairs reupholstered,
as I would be offended if someone suggested I have my own
seat repaired?

It deserves better than an owner who lets the ice cream drips
harden into tributaries of
sticky filth.

It deserves better that rusty rivets
or whatever those things are called that hold the chair backs together.

It deserves someone who knows the name of those things.

My table deserves better than me.

(A statement that reflects on the good intentions of buying vintage,
but does no favors to my own poor self-respect
at this moment.)