Table Manners
by Susan Morrison-Kilfoyle

I came to take their order.
The man sat opposite his wife.
She was hunched over,
her shirt distended oddly.
Then I spied two feet
sticking out from under the top.
The toes wiggled.

I asked them what they’d like.
The man was balding and fit.
He wanted some water and some chips.
The wife was radiant.
She ordered
some pasta,
some salad,
some bread,
some queso,
some water,
some Diet Coke,
and some green-fried tomatoes.

At that, the curtain went up,
the veil was lifted.
I saw the glistening nipple,
dripping with milk.
I heard a small, high voice,
self-possessed and sure.
“Quiche,” she said.

Copyright Mothering Magazine

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