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Boris the Tablecloth
My name is Boris.
I am a tablecloth.
I stay spread over a plastic table all day,
There are flowers and birds embroidered on my fabric;
the flowers have faded a little and the yarns have started to break and their ends stick out of them.
I am an old old tablecloth.
I have heard the lady talking about replacing me ;
I don’t know how I feel about that.
I mean I don’t really like being spread insipidly all day on the table,
I wish I could flutter in the wind and soak in the morning sunshine;
I wish a lot of things.
But it is difficult to convey all these cravings to people who don’t understand,
they think I am a lifeless piece of cloth..
sometimes children wipe their sticky oily hands yanking my corners between their fingers.
I don’t like that.
There is a fan that blows over me all day
the dust has settled on its wings and sometimes tufts of what appear to be entangled hair, dust and splinters of wood softly descends upon my surface.
I need some excitement in my life
yesterday the family had a dinner party and an old lady was given the corner table; that is me
she kept asking the children when the food will arrive,
and they kept telling her that their mother said ‘In a while’,
and the old lady would not speak for a whole minute gazing into the chandelier in the middle of the room,
that is when she will ask the same question again
even I started to get bored.
then someone offered her food And now I feel really grubby and dirty
I wish someone would pick me up and put me in a washing machine
I don’t like being oily, smudgy and dirty.