| |
Table in back-yard
speared by umbrella.
Twenty relatives,
ten friends,
Benches, chairs,
a bassett hound,
a cooler full of drinks.
You're at the grill
cooking hamburger,
sausages.
It's your job to feed them.
It's the price you pay
for being born, for knowing people.
You drop your place
in the world
onto the jaws
of an open bun.
They're hungry...
so you won't have to be.
 |
 |