Such a Table

There’s a table
at which no one has ever sat,
an ingenious table of sliding parts
built of zebrawood.  Turn its top
and the top expands
to take in leaves and turn
from table for six
to table for twelve.

The table sits in a museum
longing for a feast.  It longs
for a warm room
and earthenware plates
heaped with good hearty food,
rough woven napkins
and thick silverware and wine,
so much wine.

It longs to be spread open
in a hurry as the hosts call out
to the hungry outside,
“Come in, of course there’s
plenty for all, and
of course we’ll make room for you.”

What such a table wants from us 
is function.  It wants to hold
and groan under the weight
of that blessed holding.  It cannot bear
to be admired as idea, as concept —

such a table needs to be full.