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

Photo by nrd on Unsplash