Ode to the Dinner Table

Now that so many of us are home, perhaps it’s time to once again write an ode to an ordinary object that just doesn’t get its due.

Most of the time,
You don’t notice me –
You just see
That water from last night’s dinner
Pretending someone will drink it
Or
The mail, sorted on people’s
Worn placemats until
It’s put out of its misery

I’m not where anyone
Chooses to work
Or wants to relax,
But

Each night
You’re home
I gather you
Across the corners
For conversation
And communion
Weaving you together
Like the fringes of those
Worn placemats