The Dinner Table

A request for the truth.

The Dinner Table

The table is set,
the candles are lit,
and my plate
rests empty.

Please,
get to the meat of it.

The flesh of a situation
tends to satisfy my cravings.
I need the taste of the blood
and the logic in the fat,
not the lettuce-limp excuses or
the over-salted wisdoms.
It will not digest, and so
it lies unworked and callow,
bloating me on the nothingness,
twisting my belly with frustration.

Do not lead me in circles,
warping my sensibilities,
dizzying me with blurred explanations
and hazy philosophies.
I ask only for quick, rhythmic ideas,
punctuated with easy brilliance
which will serve to plump me up
with something close to understanding.

Take the garnish and manipulations,
and wrap them up tight in a napkin,
so you may hide them
upon your lap under the table.
The secret will remain yours,
to some small extent,
but the threat of revelation
will always be near.

The table is set,
the candles are lit,
and my plate
rests empty.