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Evening Meal
by Sue Fagalde Lick
Warm dog nudges my leg.
I reach under the kitchen table,
blindly stroking the soft fur,
absorbing her heat, easing
closer. Above the cloth,
my dinner plate is empty.The man eats slowly,
scraping his knife across his plate,
piling half-chewed bloody gristle
beside potato peels and celery strings,
tossing tooth-grooved artichoke leaves
into a bowl that doesn't match.Clock chimes 7 o'clock.
Darkness shrouds the windows,
cloth thrown over a birdcage.
Chandelier hangs, five moons
circling an incandescent sun
over melting margarine, tarnished spoons.He cuts, he bites, he chews,
he stares. Below the cloth,
the dog groans, lowering her head,
staring at me, brushing my leg,
listening for his fork to drop,
waiting to pounce on the gristle and blood.
Sue Fagalde Lick of South Beach, Oregon started out as a poet, strayed into 30 years of journalism while writing songs, books and short stories on the side, and has come back to poetry. She earned her MFA at Antioch University Los Angeles at age 51, and is currently working on a poetry chapbook called "The Dog Ate It."
