Dinner Hour

While they eat, I walk.
Twilight outside while dining rooms fill:
food, fathers, friends,
children, mothers, couples,
sneaky dogs and cats.
I watch as the sun goes down
through windows, shades not yet drawn,
the meat platter passed around the table,
and then the salad bowl or is it rice?
I can see only so much;
the rest is my imagination:
the Pearsons, going through the motions,
the mister has secrets
so he covers them with empty stories of the day
while his wife half listens
paying more attention to the dog eyeing a pork chop;
their teenage son sneaks a peek at his texts,
his magic hands hide his phone.
And on the big avenue with houses so grand
you might think perfection has been reached inside,
I see the Werners, all eight of them.
They have company tonight,
ideal guests dressed in freshly ironed clothes,
laughing with abandon at the wit of the Werners,
feasting, all of them, on salmon poached in wine
with roasted nectarines,
a recipe of Mrs. Werner’s mother
who is long dead at this point,
but was no doubt approving
of her daughter’s long-ago choice of spouse:
William Werner would give any mother reassurance
as he brought her a piece of Waterford crystal
the day her daughter brought him home.
She died 12 years ago and left a collection, naturally,
of fine crystal and silver serving pieces,
and a trove of regal recipes,
among them Roasted Nectarines.
The Davenports up on the corner
eat each night in their back sunroom,
which overlooks their moat of hosta,
a lawn replaced by every cultivar known to man
and labeled with copper tags, names in black marker:
Big Daddy, Slick Willie, Blue Mouse Ears,
Lady Isobel Barnett, Twist and Shout, Ray of Hope …
They are eating hamburgers in silence.
A widower eats alone in the lower duplex,
a can of beans with frozen enchiladas,
the news blaring from the television,
he tracks the weather as though it matters;
he will do the same thing tomorrow as he did today:
weed a little, get the mail,
warm some soup for lunch, maybe gas up the car
and at night, waiting for the weather,
he will microwave his dinner.
There is a baby across the street
in a house where her parents watch her every move,
enamored with her drool,
as they try each night
to broaden her palate:
yogurt leads to melon, bananas soon follow,
then oatmeal is added and before they know it
she will be in college,
but for now, they eat what looks like pizza
while she squeals for more of everything.
I return home,
a walk well-taken.
I make myself a salad
aware someone might be watching,
assuming I am unhappy alone with my greens;
they might be making up a story
about the woman who walks at dinnertime,
strangely straining her neck
to get a better glance inside
the homes of other people.