The elevator takes the couple to
the lower floor. Outside the dining room,
the woman greets the hostess, orders, “Come
on,” strides on in herself. Her husband rolls
his walker through the maze of tables, puts
one hand on chairs he passes. Wife returns
from greeting other members, rests a hand
on either hip, and watches, waiting. She
spots me, already seated, menu poised,
eyes peering over reading glasses at
a specimen not nearly rare enough.
If you have any comments on this poem, Jane Blanchard would be
pleased to hear from you.