Tables Turned

A table sits on boards of ice,
The panels are according to the precise.
This room chances us with hatred,
An office we connect to something crowded.
Craft of a space extracts joy and humour,
May we live and work inside our founder.
When do people load the spices?
Offered to some of us are addresses.
The tables lie on thin ice,
Where may we fetch our advice?

poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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