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DINNER
1986
Nights we circled the square table
before the meal steaming in milk white nests
of china glazed pure and bright,
I, knowing the dishwasher was out of the question
and not liking what was before me to begin with,
would sulk and sip my nectar, perched
like a bird in my wheeled leather chair
where I'd listen to them bicker
and reflect on my hair
and my books and my friends
and out of the corner of my eye
I'd glare, experiencing the lies
of love firsthand
when spring was weeks of cold darkness
removed from reach.
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