The Red Table

For two summers they sat, one on each side

of the cherry red table on their porch.

They smoked. They drank coffee

from matching mugs

and every morning they watched

the traffic on the road below their house.

The red table glowed between them.

Every morning I looked to see if they were there,

with their coffee cups and cigarettes.

They always were.

It was ritual, them on the porch

with smoke drifting ghostly into the morning air

and me in my car, passing by these people I did not know

except by their red table and their porch.

I envied them, you know, because

they were content.

It took no more than hot coffee,


and a red table to make them so

while I was busy being the traffic

they watched each morning as they sipped and smoked.

I have been watching for them this spring.

I wanted to see those two people sitting by their red table,

smoking and sipping and watching me go by,

But they are not there this year.

The red table is alone on the porch

and the chairs are tumbled about

as if a strong wind

has shaken them from their places.


About grannysu

storyteller, writer, poet, gardener, countrywoman
This entry was posted in A River of Stones, aros, NaPoWriMo. Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to The Red Table

  1. Sherrell says:

    WOW! this gave me good goosebumps. Thanks for sharing

  2. Granny Sue says:

    Thank you, Sherrell.

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