On This Old Wood Table Poem by Ben Partenay

i wrote
two lines
in the mud of this
paper painted
white
with old
thoughts

i touched the chord
of my dream and
tried to
unplug the
pictures.

all static
now.

“snow” they say
is coming
over the hills
maybe even
over this one.

that angel ash,
that Pompeii puss.

somewhere I have
lived this life
before
i’m sure of it.
the weatherman
doing his song
and dance
my hand
brushing crumbs
from my jacket.

i wrote three lines.
my finger tracing
circles
left by coffee cups,
cigars,
the red stains
of spilled wine.
drawing the
geometry
of age.

it’s simple
really,
“your words were
never less than
everything”

i’ve found it’s
easiest
to say
the hard
things
before you
wake
up.