Politeness done in perfect braids.
All stray hairs sprayed in place.
I wonder if my cotton sweats
will pass the test of wealth relaxed.
If anyone will notice pain.
I pat my hips. Try not to limp.
Casseroles from caterers
line the tile countertop.
We chat about the children's growth.
Flip through magazines of lies.
Tension runs like rivers roaring
down a canyon's dusty throat.

Beside serrated carrots sit
a creamy dip with powdered spice.
My brother working "late" again,
not lost in wine and wired with crank.
Our coy regressions cannot
fool the ocean waves.
We are ants and earth is trees.
Bite with empty shopping trips.
Alcohol--a constant fountain
pumping out its borrowed hoax.
The filter of existence wins
and gravity of loss ferments.