Going to the Jones's
Seven o'clock, not to be too
Sharp, the chit chat's in
The oven, slow broil
Never rare, never well
Always somewhere in the
Undetectable middle
Timers spinning backwards
From the start, the choicest slice
Of evening piled in
Candle wax, left dripping
While feet twiddle
Nervously beneath the table
Shoes aching for release
Bleary lips drambuied
Into not knowing why
Two forks contest dessert
The stain of coffee on
White linen marks the
Leaving, too late to
Retreat from bald replies.