Leo Luke Marcello | home
The Tablecloth (a poem)
When I was young,
children bundled me up in their arms
and shook me over the back porch,
showering the yard with breadcrumbs.
I flapped like a caught angel.
I have been marked by celebrations,
consecrated with candlewax,
stained with blood-red smears,
dollops of coconut cream,
olive-oiled thumbprints.
I have been dry-cleaned,
spot-treated and washed with love.
I have been folded and put away, and
I have been taken from the drawer again.
Warm hands have smoothed my wrinkles.
Fine goblets have been placed upon me.
Even when someone lifts a glass
and celebrates, toasting whatever
moment, I will still be resting
beneath, and perhaps long after,
there will be a fragment of cloth
and someone without knowing me
will wipe away the grime
from a smudged window
and see without even knowing
where the fabric that passes
comes from.