The remnants of a ripped-off nail pick
the residue left from a peeled sticker
on the kitchen table we once pulled in
from the side of the road. (the road where
the cop pulled us all over, one by one)
We’ve paid our dues in blood for these seats.
The table carries coffee stains, beer rings,
last laughs, and somewhere in the grain
is the sandpaper grinding on the heart—
this table is a confessional washed with salt,
blood, and playing cards. The sticker is stuck
fast, having been stuck on for years;
there is no one sitting across the table
and the pale, sweet coffee’s getting cold.
