I sit at my table, solid, present.
It’s very existence comforts.
I tap it; my knuckles resonate with it.
I push it; my fingers bend against it,
Defeated by its inertia.
My laptop sits snug on the supportive surface,
Stolidly unmoving as my fingers tap out a word.
It’s part of the process
That gives shape to an idea.
From a solid form,
Comes a solid idea.
But my desk is a charlatan.
I cannot shift my desk but
It is full of holes.
I cannot see them
But I know they are there.
My table is more space than stuff,
Just particles waving, not drowning
Held together by electrical pulses.
So we are told.
You can’t see them;
You know they are there
by how other things react to their presence.
My words shift on the page
Unexpected holes you never noticed before.
Holes you cannot see.
You cannot know if the words work,
Until you see
How others react to their presence.
It’s only then you know those little words
Are held together by something more powerful than grammar.
The hidden forces that hold ideas together
become a story worth telling.