A large room that lived its summer with music,
its evening with childish games.
The autumn of its time with me
had mountains of food and oceans of wine
to separate a mother and father.
Children perched between it all.
Bùrns wriggle down the mother’s face,
resignation sculpted into the father’s brow.
Is this routine? Something to be fixed?
Another mother has seen it coming, knows why we’re here.
Streets of casserole dishes become
imaginary lines and the new world.
The table gets longer.
Further and further;
wraps around the earth like a ribbon.