Dinner means waiting.
It means setting the table
with placemats and napkins,
and neatly set silver,
pitchers of water
and plates for your salad;
and waiting and waiting,
as smells from the kitchen,
from sizzling pans and simmering pots,
waft through the house
like intoxicating fog.
Making it hard to concentrate
on anything but the the clock,
and the driveway,
where we turn our attentions
every few minutes,
hoping for headlights.
Stomachs gurgling.
Tempers shortening.
Dad finally showing
and ever so slowly…
shedding his suit.
Un-harried.
Unhurried
to get the meal going.
Though children are moaning.
Haven’t eaten in minutes.
But dinner begins
when Dad’s ready to sit.
And no sooner.
Dog-eared Stories by anne celano frohna 