Mom texted 'Dinner's next Saturday dear

Mom texted: 'Dinner's next Saturday, dear.'

And just like that, the air went thick with dread.

That cloying scent, that awful cheer,

and every stupid thing he's ever said.

His laugh, a cough that catches in the throat.

His stories, always stretching thin the truth.

A tie too loud, a jacket or a coat

that never quite disguised his wasted youth.

I can almost smell it, pipe smoke and cheap cologne.

Already feel the forced smile, the tightening jaw.

Another night, to sit there and bemoan

the fact that some connections just ignore all law.