Dinnertime Now

I sit at the dining room table, conquered

in a ruffled dress, the kind that scraps against bare skin.

My hands slip against

the velvet chairs, color of spiced wine.

Served on china plates, outlined in parsley and thorns.

Thirst quenched in crystal cups, filled to the brim

with the humming of silk champagne.

I remember the nights of styrofoam and TV dinners.

And though you try to forget, I will

always remember the nights when the TV screen

was our Genesis. When we craved

and prayed together.    

I still crave ramen noodles.

The taste of flavor packets that coat my fingers that

now only stroke the chairs.

Flavorful and bland is sat before me,

caviar tears descend before me.

I remember the nights of styrofoam and TV dinners.

I miss the taste of dollar chocolate

that kissed my teeth and coated my lips.

Kernels of salted bliss.

We wait for desserts of almond paste and citrus.

Our laughs trickle down the table cloth, pooling

at our feet.

Slithering into the space between my socks and shined shoes with worn weary soles.

Nails curled, puncturing

the velvet skins of my own.

I remember the nights of styrofoam and TV dinners.

The almonds are sweet, the citrus burns and the

table turns to face me, handing me a china plate.

Ramen noodles and chocolate I repeat.