My mother and my father agreed to dinner,
set a time, and arrived at the restaurant separately;
they parked on opposite sides of the parking lot,
were seated at opposite ends of the restaurant,
where they each ordered two of everything:
steak, baked potato, salad, bread,
then sat, waiting, while the other patrons
gathered in happy family clusters, describing traffic,
taxes, gastric disturbances. My mother said she
was angry, cutting up her steak, watching
the meal she ordered for my father grow cold,
while my father, in a nearby booth,
was also mad, his napkin in his lap,
his reflection chewing in the window glass,
a waiter reciting the names of pies.
