This is me,
your friend,
on the table
stripping.
Don’t look away.

You made
this table
what it is:
ate off it,
wrote on it,
bruised your hip
against it.
You made
it yours.

But I am
grinding hard,
peeling off
layers
of varnish,
getting down
to deep scars,
yours and
mine,
and I keep
stripping.

I use
power tools
and chemicals.
My old shirt
wipes grit
out of rough
grooves.

It’s becoming
smooth flesh
under sand
paper. It’s time
to come
clean.

My friend,
embrace
your wife.
Leave this table
unfinished.