The Table

I was brought
Into a family
No more
No less
They loved me
Like a varnish
All shiny
And clean
But over time it wore
I became a table
Which they would only use
If they needed something
Coming back and forth
Plopping their tired wares down
For me to tinker with
And replace
For years this would go on
I would remind them
I need love
The clear
Slippery varnish
Would be applied
They would love me
For a time
For a time
Was not enough
Being used
Wears a person down
And I
Was at my limit
A glassless surface
Gazing at
Wishing on a star
For another life
Laying the papers
On the table
For a divorce
Signing them
As the wood
Of the table
Becomes a boxcar
Speeding away

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