The kitchen table steals the conversation.

Polite glances,

suitable for dinner,

never over the top,

barely enough.

She’ll always set the table,

and pick up after him

but he’ll never thank her. 

He’ll always hold her bag 

and wait,

But she’ll never open the door.

But she was once a poet.

A goddess.

A dreamer.

A fool.

And he was once 

A lover.

An artist.

A drifter.

Her muse. 

But these discussions are not suitable for dinner

So the kitchen table steals the conversation.

some other works: 

http://authspot.com/poetry/while-i-wait-3/

http://authspot.com/poetry/train-of-thought-3/