Summer Dinner
The heat of the plate
mixes with the house,
still air clinging.
Kids run to the table,
shirtless, wild.
The table joins
with shirtless children.
But tonight,
new rules arrive
with dinner:
shirts at the table.
From a shirtless leader,
the decree is clear —
no summer dinner
is the punishment.
Found guilty,
sentenced,
locked away
until the next summer meal. In a child’s mind,
a skipped meal,
feels like starving.
The birth giver —
an untrained lawyer — stands no chance.
A state-appointed defender, I was doomed
from the trial’s start.
Late in the sentence,
the lawyer checks in.
A bowl of marshmallows is granted,
but be discreet.
Mini squares
gleam like gold
in the quiet house,
sunset light spilling in.
I eat quietly,
cherishing
each marshmallow.
Summer dinner.
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