Thanksgiving Eve

Preturkey poetry.
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      Part I

I sit upon broken wicker next to a nearly broken table.
The green ashtray on its lacy surface is toppling with cigarette butts.

     Part II

Houndstooth wool in seventies spectra.
The simple treasures, all out on display
           Waiting to be played with, read, and rearranged.
The collage of things this hunter gatherer sought, lazily on whim
                    and not.
In the view of this semi-stranger, me, after all...
      Orange hexagons and headless statues.
In transit. Not so much lost as once thought.
The simple treasures possess great measure,
                   each their own inanimate animal
         like the lit candle,
      antlers, sea-foam paint, sword and sheath,
    in symbiosis with the crooked table beneath.
Eager to dream, I'll slip into bed after I brush my teeth.