The Table of this World [sonnet]
Those feet of mine have never slid beneath
the table of this world nor ever could.
This world will never throw my way a wreath;
my only hope: to be misunderstood.
In early years those elements would sting
but now they glide like water off my back.
For in this world to nothing I will cling;
I’ve learned to deal with anything I lack.
But there’s another world beyond our view;
in fact, there’s more than one outside this hole
of green and brown and red and black and blue.
The urge to leave I barely can control.
No tables here will fit (as I have found);
and nothing more will keep me on the ground.
.
.
© Alan Morrison, 2013
The Naked Troubadour 