Your table is a real table
sliced oak and oil-dressed
uneven surface                                          like the road leaving the village
grains swollen from drowning emotions
                  - and spilled cups of tea

so many hands have smoothed it
over so many years
some anxious
some happy
           - all loved

a few splinters are bulging from the corners
each a memory
some good
          some bad
some probably just about the times the ashtray was missed
and maybe one where the beer bottle exploded
resting like a stained glass window
         - the table ready to hear pre-night-out confessions 

if it could talk 
how many stories could it tell 
 - too many to worry about 


next time we’re around it
we should give thanks
drift palms gently over the lines
a loose embrace
that clings tightly to the seams
              - like the roots of our friendship.