my thinking table

a stapler,
three candles slightly smoking,
a small jar of mustard, opened, not refrigerated

is there hope in this?
the smoke smells sweet.
the mustard was sweet.
even Mr. Stapler, always prone,
reminds of holding together
with tiny piercings of kinked wire

laconic verse neglects the lengthy tweezers,
a Wal-Mart magnifying glass,
a loupe and many, many scraps of paper
proving thought.
a visitor moth singes its wings
above the remaining lit candle