The floors were fine. Gorgeous,
in fact. Blonde as sunshine, clean,
polished, alive with the kind of promise
we had dreamed. But oh those two
mismatched wooden tables. Same height
so we kept trying to line them up
as if they were a unit. One was maple,
right out of somebody’s 1950s Nebraska kitchen,
with a scalloped leaf that folded down,
though it was years before we could see it
for what it was. The other, streamlined,
sleek. Once we tried pushing them together
and covering with a patterned cloth,
though dinner guests banged their knees
on that leaf. When I look back,
I’m amazed we didn’t toss that piece, haul it
to the curb. But, no, we struggled
for years to make it work, painting
and painting it again, even turning it sideways.