At the back of the library
sits a dejected round table,
its legs shaky,
wood dulled after years of
seating outcasts.
This is my table.
In the middle of the library
sit a few rectangular tables,
filled with the kids who belong.
I watch their mouths move,
their eyes dancing,
dancing away from my gaze.
The walk to the round table is one of
"wish you could be us."
And I see him,
sitting at the edge of a rectangular table.
My legs become like that of my table's:
shaky, knees weak.
I'm accustomed to admiring from a distance,
but I want to grow accustomed to his diction,
how he talks to me with a "this is temporary"
and to them with a "this is better;"
his imagery,
the lopsided smile that grows wide when he
talks to the brunette on the track team;
his theme,
his purpose,
his everything.
But who am I?
Hunched over a book,
a knight at the round table.
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 9:38 PM UTC
At the back of the library
sits a dejected round table,
its legs shaky,
wood dulled after years of
seating outcasts.
This is my table.
In the middle of the library
sit a few rectangular tables,
filled with the kids who belong.
I watch their mouths move,
their eyes dancing,
dancing away from my gaze.
The walk to the round table is one of
"wish you could be us."
And I see him,
sitting at the edge of a rectangular table.
My legs become like that of my table's:
shaky, knees weak.
I'm accustomed to admiring from a distance,
but I want to grow accustomed to his diction,
how he talks to me with a "this is temporary"
and to them with a "this is better;"
his imagery,
the lopsided smile that grows wide when he
talks to the brunette on the track team;
his theme,
his purpose,
his everything.
But who am I?
Hunched over a book,
a knight at the round table.
A piece of prose turned "poetry."
Request permission to use this poem