Today would be Hermann Rorschach's 129th birthday so posting an old poem...

Table

 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.