Table Bed

In my dreams are table beds.
A mystic carpenter creates them, when he forgets the forms.
The table is set for the feast.
Large crystal goblets with cubes of ice melting and freezing.
Flat ceramic plates in circles, spinning into squares and triangles.
Dancing forks, singing spoons, knives dueling and jousting.
Ladles scooping airy love to guests. Salad tongs having sex.
Coffee cups give soliloquies of silent starry walks in nature.
Beer steins boast gloried memories of youth in heat and battle.
Wine glasses jingle with the latest gossip on the go. 
The artist dreams and sleeps in centerpiece.
His open mouth is stuffed with apples.
In his table bed, they come and go.
Some craftsmen is measuring out his space in right angles.
Some judge is sentencing him for the irrational feast.
Some banker is balancing his numbers on a bed sheet.
Some philosopher has banished him for formless fun.
The bed becomes a table for him to work.
He wakes to find the imitators endlessly talking to themselves in his head.
Their language comes and goes in sprinkled gibberish and sluggish jargon.
Off he goes from bed to table, twisting and turning forms to meet desires.
He calculates, measures, and weighs the dinner set in motion.
The waking world has not set a place for him to dine,
and so he brings his bed, and cobbles together a sleeping seat,
to dream and eat and sleep.