A triangular table built with friends when I
was twenty, carving wood and hammering
nails between statistics lessons, laughter,
ouchs, cigarettes and uncountable glasses

of wine. Dark red rivers misted in smoke,
clouded memories drowned in fumes, as I
watched and encouraged far more than I crafted,
the construction of a project pervaded

with great expectations. A distinctive telltale
air pertaining only, to those beginning life
with a deep gut feeling, suggesting endless
possibilities and naught limits a strength

strictly reserved to youth. Fell in love
with one of the makers, summer affairs in three
months turned, into a family. Dined on triangle
every night until, I graduated and bore

my first child Plato. Moved to the other side
of the city leaving behind, the artefact
in co-builder’s hands and lover’s best pal,
he who impeded prenatal doubts with candlelight

monologues on change and importance until
he too left, for Mexico newlywed, to my old-time
school friend. History intertwined and table given
to another witness of manufacturing days living,

by the Roman lake. A new wave, of dinners
reuniting friends between marketing campaigns,
laughter, feeding bottles and uncountable glasses
of better wine. Table metres away deposited

in the garage as I, conceived my second child,
Eleni on a New Year ’s Eve neglecting
its presence. Splitting up from my lover to bond
a little further, changing house once more

to grow. Moving to France as lake inhabitants
moved to Sweden, kids’ father into their home,
keeping an eye on the rotting triangular table
for two years to fly by and see me return,

harboured by he who never lets me down,
a year to recover from adventures
and deceptions, new friends hardly replacing
those who left, gazing at the table to reminisce,

promising I would bring it back to life as soon
as, yesterday came and so did strength, for me
to retrieve, clean, polish and place the relic in
the centre of family abode, and write this ode.