what the cat told me about the tablecloth on the floor

In every perfect tables brightest hope
a dash of salt and hurdled pepper smear
like twist of twine into a fat of rope

until the mix becomes a tripping fear
of knives, of spoons and forks that dance
right down oaken spindles of each chair

to clang and ring, to sing and then to prance
about the floor a silver waltz of joy
the soft choreography toe-tapped by tine and chance

this is the lusty dream that every table might employ
whilst seeming honest, deep, so flat and coy