In spite of looking neat

intact, untouched,

some sticky, frantic gripping thing

(what mother, mystified, termed city dirt)

had found its secret way

had filtered, hidden, inward

passed right through linen cloth,

left no stain, made no mark, yet, somehow

strongly bonded fabric grid to smooth wood down below

Just how long had that linen cloth been left

upon the little table there?

How many days . . . or weeks?

Or more?

no record here

no kitchen calendar that kept the count

How many widowed morning meals?

Each one contributing, no doubt, although (it seems) invisibly,

to moisture, particles, the secret glue or goo of silent passing time

Removed the candlestick

the potted plant

the plate

the fork

the spoon

Removed it all,

then, bit by bit,

pulled up resistant linen, warp and weft

Detached the grey blue matrix from pale blonde table-wood

Like tablecloth

the tabletop as well

in urgent need of asap cleansing care

the once-smooth maple surface

rough and sticky now

Our table, naked, tippy,

built from too-short boards —

leftovers, bits and pieces, from when we first came here

found out we needed to replace the failing, stained fir floor.