Black Folding Table
The black folding table arrived on a Tuesday,
still smelling faintly of cardboard and warehouses,
its legs folded neatly beneath it,
like a bird that had forgotten how to fly.
No one was waiting.
No one had cleared a place.
No one said,
“At last.”
It stood in its box by the wall
while sunlight crossed the floor without noticing.
A chair has certainty.
A bed has belonging.
Even an old lamp remembers
the shape of the room it once illuminated.
But a folding table belongs nowhere.
Its whole design is departure.
It exists to be unfolded,
used briefly,
wiped clean,
and hidden again.
A temporary witness.
A guest in every room.
It dreams, perhaps,
of becoming indispensable.
Of gathering crumbs from family dinners,
holding puzzles half-finished,
supporting the weight of elbows,
coffee mugs,
and ordinary afternoons.
Instead it waits.
Patient as winter.
Silent as an unopened letter.
The house continues around it.
Children leave.
Seasons change.
Ants march through unseen cracks.
The rain taps softly at the windows.
And still the black folding table waits,
carrying inside itself
the shape of a purpose
that has not yet arrived.
There is a particular sadness
in being ready
for a life
that has not started.
And so it stands,
unremarkable,
portable,
easily stored away,
holding together with steel hinges
and unreasonable hope.
-Written by ChatGPT
By Autumn Rain 