Eyes at the table turn
when the dessert tray appears.
Sweet, delectable treats.
Bite-sized creampuffs
light with innocence and laughter.
Grandchildren, life’s dessert,
have arrived in twos and threes
off the menus of siblings.
And these end-of-meal eclairs
now eclipse even
the most savory courses,
she and I.
The first bites are taken
While the waiter boxes
what remains of our lives,
the scraps of the main course
now intended for dogs.
And this is it,
as we have nothing else
to offer the patrons,
the patriarch and matriarch;
no macarons, no crème brulee,
no slice of American pie.
So,she and I, the leftovers,
go home where we are pushed
to the back of the refrigerator,
to be present but forgotten,
to be left, to be over.
Nick Gaffney