this is the table

where you kicked my knee out of its socket.
this is the table where we wrote that sonnet,
(the one that took flight and then failed so miserably.)
this is the table where, two years ago,
that boy with the reddish hair stole my pencil.
i hope he knows, that skunk, that bandit,
that delinquent stealer of writing utensils,
that he ruined our writing careers
and quite possibly is responsible for these two botched-up lives.