a drab urge to write again, about the kitchen table. i guess, to get this over with sooner leaves space for other topics. i put my self to bed, fell to sleep with a book on my chest, a story unfolding, nearer yet to an end. waking to the splatter of rain on the deck, my window cracked left the house chilled, under the covers, dark and warm i hide. what a mess, the world unravels as the radio travels to distant despairs. some hope flickers in my chest and i find myself in pants and a sweater. water is on and the i boil eggs. coffee of course, then i sit, at the kitchen table, its legs slightly splayed from poor workmanship and its panels bend from elbows, bent. an assorted tray of important simplicities are strewn about the surface. forgotten sketches, burned candles, pencils and pens, gadgets, binoculars and crumbs. dead cameras and dusty lenses with no image to reflect. but i reflect, and through the window an ever changing scene gives me a space to draw new thoughts and revisit old ones. i have so much in so little, and with that i seem to lose just as much. my memory fails when i most want it and throbs when its least wanted. i gave up the world and now i am missing it. how to catch up? or why? i put myself here, at the kitchen table, with its chairs, all but one, unfilled. funny how we gaze at the sun only when its setting.