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The table is old and worn
nicks and scratches 
its red plastic tablecloth left over from a forgotten Christmas
its holiday pattern worn and forlorn
many a Thanksgiving dinner was hosted
the plump turkey as dry as yesterday

many wars were waged
because father or mom, 
many school projects worked on till late, 
because of school

this table has withstood much, 
many dinners of love or cold silence, 
as warm lamps are downturned

Hearing only the hum of lights burning 
a broadcast of the nightly news babbling
all in the family noise droning

in the background, as the night bleeds in…
with no one watching or caring only waiting,
a held moment of breath 

a suspended minute of wrath 
shadowed by the turn of affairs, 

this table worn, old, covered in nicks
scratches, its tattered red plastic tablecloth 
left over from a forgotten Christmas long 
long ago, its holiday pattern is worn and forlorn, 
many a Thanksgiving dinner devoured or picked on

I sit before the green mid-century plate 
where forgotten flowers drift, 
I feel anger, rage, I feel the sorrow for the past

A few joys glitter like stars in the vastness of my deep history, 
feeling the storm always waiting to break,
a clash of things better left unsaid or unseen, 
too much too soon or what shouldn't have been, 
Or what should have been 

feeling my age 
trying to dampen the rage 
watching fold of ages
feeling the turning pages

“eat your all your dinner, there are people starving in Africa!” 

WAIT! What!? 

I jerk around to see a face never forgotten. Mom? 

“I don’t want to” I petulantly whine. 
“You will! AND you will like it!” 
My father says with a tone of thunder storm 
with a possible lightning strike of a backhand 
across any possible exposed edifice of my make

the fish just sits, caught by my deviant other and his sycophants, 

meager is this fish in a meager time, 
the ice is thin on the skeletons of trees, 

as thin as sandwiches, remembering the grime
feeling out of my element, the broken elegance of memory

I stare into the dead eyes of that dead fish
small, meager, thin in a thin time
as our houses sit vacantly 
no occupants to warm up their halls
no money, flowing to needy hands

I struggle to meet this meager fishes gaze
Filleted on my mid-century plate
with forgotten floral patterns out of place

I hate fish, but if not eaten the insults will fly
my starving stomach calls for this thin meal

But I can hear Mom state in a meager way 
about meager things, things of importance...
The importance of being “grateful” she drones on…

I sit and I struggle to meet this meager fishes gaze
sitting on my mid-century plate
a white floral pattern out of place

a stinking meager fish caught just out in the sea. 

“Be careful of the fishbones, 
        dear," mom drones as she always does...
            "They are a choking hazard...
       n-can-kill you,"
                    "... you can choke to death!" my dad in tones.

So now I hate fish don’t you see
l flinch at the 
           MEMORY of Bones... caught, if you will, in my imagery

Tracing the patterns,
                 paths of something filleted 
                       on my mid-century dish…
I remember…
         …of a table old n worn
with nicks n scratches... 
      Covered by a red plastic 
                    tablecloth 
                            left over from a forgotten 
                                       Christmas long, long ago
           its holiday pattern is worn n forlorn
                       many a Thanksgiving 
                                dinner came n went with 
                                          a thin turkey as dry as yesterday... 
picked on
            Ha! How I…
… how I remember that fish!
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