How well we set our tables — 
with feasts of joy
and draughts of sorrow.
My table is a scarred oaken door…
Laid with youthful delights
and lamenting doles.

Too often,
I spare the meal
but imbibe the woe…
Bitter distress drained 
with vexing sips.
They tire, turn me brittle,
until I fall, 
from my seat.

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