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Suppertime

Suppertime

A sticky evening in July:
A stack of air conditioners hum,
each spewing its unique condensate,
staining the red bricks and spalling grout 
between each floor of our apartment house.

We hear men’s voices call out “mom” and “wow”,
as forks and knives clink into sinks.

Eerie rooftop silhouettes fade:
our jagged parapet dissolves
in short-lived twilight.
The creeping nightfall accentuates
the flashing glimmer 
of dusty Baghdad scenes
from a TV screen,
in a darkened living room,
where a widow waits
on her sagged settee 
for sleep to come.

Home from our labors
the kingdom sups,
then shares the nodding reverie of meat.


Copyright © mark goldstein

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