An old wooden table
Sits empty in the room
Its walls sparsely paint
A spark of evening gloom

The sound of family chatter
Has faded into dust
And the lively air of children
Now smells of lonely must

The one who ruled this chamber
Travels on a distant trip
But the bags with his belongings
In the bedroom closet sit

It’s hard for me to recall
The ancient sunny days
I pull a chair and ponder
The mists within my gaze

I know he will be better
In traversing this new land
But this table with its settings
Will miss his familiar hand