I dust the cloth till knuckles may burn,
Fold creases sharp the way they learn.
No one taught me how to wait,
But I do know how to set a plate.
Each year, I dress the table bare,
As if someone might notice a special type of care.
The kind tucked where no one ever looks,
Between all the spoons and brittle hooks.
I pull the chairs out, just a touch,
Not too inviting, never much.
They say you’re brave, to sit alone.
I say it’s worse to have them phone.
And still I press the linen white,
The wax rings ghosting from last night.
I never blow the candles out,
They die like most things, slow with doubt.
You learn to time the silence well,
To sip from cups that never swell.
They’ll say it slipped, or that they meant,
But silence makes the best cement.
I’m not unloved. Don’t twist the thread.
I just set rooms they don’t call red.
It’s not a scream. It’s just a mark,
like ash on cloth when flames go dark.
So I prepare, as I was taught,
And claim the echo as my spot.
No song, no slice, no box or bow,
Just me, and dust, and what they don’t know.
