Dinner Table Rules

At six-thirty sharp, plates clacked,

a ritual carved in light and shadow.

Forks tapped in quiet sync,

soup steam curled like a soft warning.

No phones, no cracks in the script—

every bite measured, every word weighed.

I thought it was normal, the clock’s tight grip,

till I heard laughter spilling through open doors

where silence didn’t rule the room.

Now I hold that table’s edge,

a guest in a ritual too strict for comfort,

where love was folded in neat lines of order.