Somehow I manage
Each fork parallels its knife.
The clock makes the stillness
Wither. She knows how best.
To ignore you. How.
To count the steps to an autumn
Road. Emptied. A limp ribbon
Turns to knots. The vase suffices.
I manage.
To make the plates look natural.
The napkins pressed. Clenched.
The prize-winning rose askew.
I ignore you. Some-
Say ‘I’m excused’ and break off.
A meal deserted. Seconds remain.
Tonight I want no manners.
How I manage.
