There is a standard
a formal dinner on the lawn.
It's not a time for soft new words
but for talking through the things
we've already known, gone
over like the mincing
words of aunts you
never want to see. Sweat
on an iced tea glass, and taffeta not for summer sticks
to the backs of thighs.
get in the way of one another, words
left unsaid in the sounds
of plates and
innocent clinks of forks and ice.
If you've any comments on this poem, Rosemarie Koch would be pleased to hear from you.