Flat is the table between us,
we who have been neighbors for years,
who have spoken often
of recipes and the attitudes of our children
who play together in the other room.
It’s easy to eat together,
or complain about the lack of rain,
the yellow lawns,
the way the generous summer
pushes its heat so hard against the houses
on our street.
But many times
I’ve pointed out an astonishing sunset
before I’ve left the table to step outside, unjoined,
unconnected to whatever invisible anchor
could keep her in her chair,
which is only one of the reasons
we’ll never truly be friends.