All arguments have been cleared away
with the plates and silverware.
Tensions hang in a haze near the ceiling.

Chairs sit, pushed back
to free distended bellies.
All that remains of substance

is half a lemon cake,
an island looming
from a dark green sea of tablecloth.

Confetti of crumbs lie around it.
A long knife bridges
both lips of the dish.

It offers itself
like a samurai sword
before sheared faces

of the half-moon cake,
an invitation,
or a warning.

09/26/2001

Posted on 09/26/2001
Copyright © 2026 Bruce W Niedt