Consider the depth
of an empty drawer.
My tears can’t fall
to reach the bottom
where seldom would a hand
run across its core.
Instead, they bead off the top coat,
that solid front present before me.
Dried, old wizened oak,
how I long to sink into
the untreated grain
and apply my own tung oil
with a seasoned brush.
You say the satin sheen is chipped,
yet I know how chiffoniers mount up
like shallow rag gatherers of time,
crammed and unable to slide shut.
But the imperial measurements
of thought out dimensions
will form the thickest dovetail design
which will stand the truest test
and hold the largest capacity of all.
It is only that drawer
which my finger joints
strain to stroke the surface of.