He stares at the table.

His elbows on the table.

His book on the table.

His right hand moving now across the table with his right elbow in the air.

The light from the overhead lamp flat across the table.

The bark of a dog rolls from one side of the table to the other.

The table makes the humming sound of a refrigerator.

The table with its dark underbelly.

Its secret place where legs go when they go underneath a table.

The table made out of weight and sight and ten scratches.

The table made out of the sound of a car driving across the asphalt night.

Made out of pain in the shape of wood.