Food Left on the Table

 

They’d been at each other’s throats so long now

it was impossible to know how it started

or if it even mattered except to locate,

out of spite, that feeling of betrayal,

of having given all oneself in marriage

only to have, in the worst moments,

that same commitment used against them,

returning in love and driven away

again like two planets crossing orbits

around some immense gravity, tonight

it was the dinner she cooked every Friday.

The table alone was lit like a stage play,

one triangular light cast upon them,

with manners like lines they interpreted

from some lost, unfinished play of O’Neill’s.

“Was that man at work today?” she asked.

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