Palimpsest

When earth shook 

we sheltered beneath you

and when the plaster fell

the white dust coated the floor

in a negative rectangle.

Dinner was ruined,

so we snacked and swept

and went to bed.

When foam darts flew,

and laughter filled the house,

we put you on your side for cover.

“Get behind the wall!” we shouted.

You were perfect protection until

someone whined it was no fair

and we tipped you 

back onto your legs.

When you were stained and scratched,

you went to the workshop

to hold tools, and nails, and glue,

and we made a birdhouse on you,

model planes, a box kite, a rabbit cage.

Later, when someone asked, “Where’s the hammer.”

and mom said, “Out on the workbench,”

we knew what she meant

because we were here for the change.

Then, just last night,

retrieved from storage,

scrubbed clean, and draped in a table cloth,

you were a palimpsest

set with plates and flatware.

We sat and ate and talked over you,

a practical place to gather for dinner.

And to think, 

sometime before we were born,

a carpenter received an order

for a table.