he's getting old now, but still young enough
to buy self-help books he’ll read
only to stay on the treadmill
next to the other suburbanauts.
uses a fortune cookie slip as a bookmark
that just says run.

he's getting old now, but still young enough
to think he "found" someone—
someone as boring as he is,
and they swore to her readymade god
"to have and to hold" each other's
credit card debt and tangled mess of neuroses
‘til death of one kind or another comes.

he’s getting old now, but still young enough
to pretend it’s not happening.
cleans the gutters. trims the lawn.
drags his boat to the river every summer
to drink beer and lie in the heat—
like the sun will burn the years off.

he’s getting old now, but still young enough
to break down in the grocery store,
somewhere between the potato chips
and the popcorn,
crying onto the linoleum,
wiping his nose on his sleeve—
a quiet little implosion
under fluorescent lights.

he’s getting old now, but still young enough
to think he’s missing something.
like a dog still searching for the ball
that was never thrown.
like a flickering motel sign that just says
no vacan, no vacan, no vacan

he’s getting old now, but still young enough
to feel like a frozen dinner in the microwave—
burnt to hell on the outside,
ice-cold in the middle.

I'd like to take you to the beach in Marblehead,
When the summer nights are warm.
Take you out to dinner,
Show you the riches of my homeland.
Then I'll hold your hand, walk you to the sands,
Where we can be hidden from the world,
Hidden enough to dance amongst the waves.
Spinning, dipping, gliding across the grains,
Hands on your skin, lips on your own.
When we tire we can retire,
Down on a blanket, I'll cradle you,
We can watch the stars fly by.
Maybe I'll get to watch you,
Dance another groove.

Mangonadas for dinner,
or maybe just a snack.
Cooking isn’t my forte—
an unfortunate skill to lack.

But when I was a child,
my brother caught on fire.
He leaned against the stove
as if it were his pyre.

Falling to the floor,
he stopped and dropped and rolled—
and luckily for him
the fire was controlled.

I ran upstairs in terror!
I screamed and I cried!
I thought I’d lost my brother—
I thought that he would die.

Lifting up his shirt,
he showed his big, black scar—
Such a drastic contrast
I could see it from afar.

Anxiety came in,
and never did I learn
to cook myself dinner—
too afraid to burn…

It’s almost half past eleven,
This feels strangely like heaven.
Blink-182 playing in the background,
While we sing along in an off-key sound.
The dinner plates waiting to be put away,
I hope they can understand the delay.

The dinner table.
It is called what it is despite the use for all meals
starts out with breakfast
the kids get their backpacks from the chairs and go to school.

The dinner table.
Come lunchtime, sandwiches
prepared on its rough tired surface
waiting for the children to come home and enjoy them.

The dinner table.
Now comes dinner,
A place of comfort and good thing
where every expressed meal takes place in the American home.

The dinner table.
Wooden, ovoid piece of furniture located in the formal dining room
such a work of art in yet such a pleasant, morsel-resting masterpiece
a family heirloom often overlooked for its uses.

The dining room is where the family can relax at the universal dining counter for mealtime.

The kitchen is where the food is made and prepared. But tonight, we have other meal plans.

The dinner table.
Let us rest our heads upon its surface and say a prayer of thanks
let us praise the Lord for the food he has blessed us with.
Now let’s eat! This takeout looks delicious!

his eyes are what graze his meal,
while he pokes at it with a fork, like a child

she asks in a sweet voice, if there’s
anything on his mind…

with a full plate, leftovers of his love
for her, and an empty pride - he finally asks
her

“did you also tell him you love him, right
after I watch you both kiss each other”

splat!

her spoon crushes pieces of food on her plate,
my love, I swear to you, it was only ONE TIME

he smiles, but in a sombre voice he replies,
“funny, with such a passionate kiss I watched,

I’m sure the both of you had a lot of practice”

clinking and clacking
bickering and talking
i can hear them from the other room
laughter and voices
conversing and observing
i can hear them from the other room
suffocating and drowning
exhausted and done
they cant hear me from the other room
silent and void
still and unmoving
they cant hear me from the other room

when the last light is out,
when all the shadows coalesce
to form a path of quiet in the dark,

i haunt the halls better than any ghost,
i hold shadows dear more than most.

only in that twilight i let my hunger roam,
appetite too large for the crevices of a wakeful home.

i wish you weren't scared of my famine,
i wish you would learn how to eat me
with something
other
than
a
knife.

i would hand you a scalloped dessert spoon,
and you could pry my shell open,
like the kitchens biggest prize.

The dinner table

is stylishly set, spotless --


Sorry, except me.

The boys are all about the cheeses,
the platter, the crackers.
The girls are all about double cream.
The thicker the better.

The boys select the cheeses
that are bluer and smellier.
The girls stick with tiramisu
with a coffee chaser.

It makes no difference to the bill
which each year gets pricier.
They add a charge for the ambiance,
no matter what we order.