The table was small, and he
had put too many things on it,
things large and small,
precious and fragile, placed
in a pattern pregnant with peril.
By the time he finished
his square dance around the round table
and sat down hoping to order his breath,
most of the things lay shattered
on the floor, while the rest
had assumed a strange sequence,
against his will, and
beyond his comprehension.
And then, he heard the stern voices
of relentless, white uniforms,
holding infinitely big, black boxes
to carry away all the stuff,
portable or otherwise,
broken, or utterly exhausted,
neatly arranged or
in a wrong order
placed.
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