I use the hot
pink place mats,
a hedge against
depression,
with the teal
bowls for the
oatmeal.
White napkins
with pink embroidered
flowers –
machine-stitched,
always a second choice.
It feel like
everything is.
Summer hangs,
lowering itself
closer to my
skin.
The place mats
were a waste
of time,
you take so long
to respond
to my announcement
of breakfast
I give up the
idea of sitting
with you.
I cannot eat
for thirty minutes
myself,
because of pills.
Sitting beside you
as close as we
come to sharing
a meal.
You arrive home
late, I’ve learned
to eat without
waiting.
I always eat
alone,
the place mats
do nothing
to help.

8/10/04