Title: Table Tennis
by Craig from Cornwall | in writing, poetry, dark
The table is dragged to the centre of the dining room and unfolded, looking as cumbersome as a visit to our Great Grandfather in the home. Place mats are laid parallel, seperated by a clear plastic window, babies knives and forks placed neatly beside each mat like children, waiting for the nod of attention. Food is brought to the obstacle, on old faded halos and two foreigners sit, opposite, strangers taking in the aggressive fumes of cooked meat. Cuts are made, they tuck in like wild animals and conversation broaches lifes regret, childrens games like Simon Says and maybe if the audience is lucky, a game of tag played with old family photos. With each thrown object, every objective comment on the others mannerisms, the audience applaudes while the umpire utters the latest scores, fifteen to love.
Mum, Dad, maybe it is time to stop playing games.
Comments