forks scrape against plates
along lips, along tongues

those moving things
that seem to go and never stop

strike right through the quiet
the mind is futile to create

quick, cold prongs
into that special-occasion steak

words come out,
lips curve upward,

and the laughing pressure's on

it's automatic

"ha, ha,"

a grind of the knife,
stroke of the napkin

applied knowledge
purely reactive

sort of movement,
sort of laughing