Dinnertable

It is dinnertime, and no leaf haloed plates adorn the table the cups are hollow, guests sip silence, clink metal to teeth swallow meatless bites, two imaginary sides no soft centered butter is set to dress the bread. It is dinnertime, but no oven caw resounds. Glasses ring in vain, no sips, no bites, ghost meat green beans, rice, the white bread is unrobed. It was dinnertime, but the cabinet doors remained closed; dinnertime, but the womb had gone cold: static crackles between un-pulled chairs the napkins sit nobly folded It is dinnertime, but your seat is not set. I swallow bites of mud. The ceiling long released our secrets to the firmament, and the naked bread is rotting on the shelf.