The Old Man And The Table Poem by Arthur Vaso

I sit at the table
An old man, an old table
The candle is old
The bread is moldy
The air is dry
The coffin rusty
I cough, dust flies
The budgie chokes and dies

I sit at the table
An old man, an old table
Wrinkled face and wrinkled hands
Broken empty plates planning their attack
Serrated edges glaring at my throat
I must seem easy prey, and old weathered goat

I sit at the table
An old table, an old man
Staring at the unplugged fridge
Tired of life I nod off, startled
By the dancing empty pill bottles
Performing artfully in harmony
With a passing tram

I sit at the table
An old man, an old table
I stare at an old torn photo
Young lovers in spring time trance
That bastard stole my girl long ago
He was me, before,

The kitchen table became old