Three-quarters of the time I really feel
OK, quite well, quite sane, then once a
month -
like when you go out for a special meal
the folded wedge of cardboard shoved
beneath
the shortest leg of the most tremulous
table
gets kicked away and causes an awkward tilt
-
so, sometimes I can become unstable
unable to handle an overspill of rage and
guilt.
And once the table cloth is stained
with claret wine, a Rorschach blot,
and stainless knives have hit the ground,
and scalding words are no longer hot,
then blameless you replace the wedge
and lift me effortless from the edge.
