We went to Casa Carbone for dinner–
Mom doesn’t cook, and Ben was craving chicken parm.
The host sat us in our usual spot in the corner,
beneath the Sicilian landscape mural.

The white-skirted woman in its background
seemed to watch our every bite,
trying to spot what was wrong with the picture
that lay before her.

Napkins in laps, we pushed around conversation
as noodles ******* our forks
and the crimson tablecloth
hid the day’s spaghetti stains.

When it came time for boxes and the bill
the waiter finally posed the question
that none of us had had the courage to ask:
“Where’s Dad tonight, folks?”

He was beneath some other mural with someone else;
but without his RSVP, we couldn’t have known.
And so we chuckled at the waiter,
without a reply of our own,

because we hadn’t an answer, only each other–
the three of us
at a table set for four.