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.


DeMaris Gaunt



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