I want a table. I go down to where the wood is, The corner of my basement workshop; The wood is dark, oxidised for 50 years On the walls of my Grandma’s house. I stretch out my tape: 36 inches, 40, 48, yes, That’s it. I cut two pieces to 48. The pieces are milled With a design on one side; I turn them over, flat side up, And mitre cut the ends, 45 degrees, To make a sort of frame Round the two middle boards. I glue the tongues into the grooves And my top is done. I rip the rails from the 1×6 Down to 3 inches broad, And cut them 46 inches long, The ends 18. I cut the legs from 2×2, 15¼ inches high. I join the base to the top With little pieces, ¾×¾, Pilot-drilled and counter-sunk On adjacent sides, To screw into rails and top, Inside one, and under the other, Hidden, unattractive, but essential. Then I sand and sand, My random-orbit electric sander Vibrating my hand so it tingles For hours after. Now the top is smooth, Ready for polyurethane. Long, careful strokes Pull it into the grain; The wood drinks deep; Having been dry so long, Its thirst is great. Thus does old become new.