if—pining (my three-legged-table life)

if—pining (my three-legged-table life)

if this were an ideal world—

not ideal, just undisturbed, balanced—

where my words wouldn’t

overturn my three-legged-table life

knocking everything—every thing—

onto a tiled floor—

spilled, broken, irreparable, irrecoverable—

fine delicate cups and plates—

this life of mine—

filled with scalding coffee

and food that spoils in the heat—

if this were a balanced world

then i would say to you—

just before kissing the curve of your neck

just before pulling you to me

my hand on the small of your back—

i would say to you:

satin sheets have nothing on you—

not warmth or lure or pleasure or comfort—

absolutely nothing on you—

except the freedom from my pining

my fruitless inexpressible

but it is my three-legged-table life

with settings arranged, the food served

so i offer instead my incomplete wordless apologies

and the softest place at the center of me

where you can lie without disturbing

this high-wire act by an essentially clumsy man

the sorry is retroactive and preemptive

no ifs