That night was special...my first time
to eat with the grown ups at the big table
on company night. Everything was clean,
everything polished, not a crumb anywhere.
The table cloth was gleamy white
under the good sterling laid just so.
For a center piece roses were mixed
with daisies in a silver bowl.
A mountain of crispy chicken was piled high
on a platter in front of dad.
I remembered my manners and used
the right forks, chewed slow
with mouth closed, put butter
on the small plate, and spoke to guests
only when they spoke to me.
After the meal I learned
that when company is here
you don't pick up chicken and eat it
with your fingers and you definitely
never, ever, ever pass your bones
to dad to pick clean.
Previously published in the North Carolina Poetry Society's
"Award Winning Poems, 2000"
Used with the permission of the Poet.
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