⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Our kitchen table serves as purgatory to the house,
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀everything on its way through required to stop and wait,
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀everything there on its way somewhere eventually.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Clean laundry half-folded, dirty laundry half-sorted,
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀unopened mail, identifying papers to be shredded,
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀old newspapers, dry goods not yet stored on shelves,
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀a bag of cat litter, plates left from some past dinner,
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀and our gods only know what’s beneath what’s on top.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Purgatory, my man, given up to an arbitrary change
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀of word and heart. One soul’ll put up with this mess,
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀that’s taken as credit to what we’ll call grace and love,
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀and we’ll give him the grace he needs to stay out of hell.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Then there’s you. You put up with the mess too easily,
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀so we paint it up as a sign of an unspeakable clutter
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀accumulated high on your own private kitchen table,
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀and we curse you as needed to show you the door.