This Old House

Worn smooth beneath every step,
splintered in places where shoes have slid.
It absorbs spilled sauces and dropped rice grains,
the heavy shuffle of customers coming and going.
It holds echoes of whispered deals and laughter,
silent but alive beneath each scuff.


Frame bent from years of use,
legs uneven, scraping the floor.
Its seat sags just enough to feel familiar,
cracked leather peeling like old skin.
It’s been leaned on, kicked, ignored,
but it stays, stubborn as the walls.


Hanging over the kitchen entrance,
threadbare and soaked with steam and grease.
Its edges fray like forgotten memories,
blocking the world beyond with a soft, heavy hush.
It moves only when the cooks pass through,
bearing the smell of garlic and smoke.