The Common Table

Three tubs of potato salad sit in a row,

all sweating under the basement lights.

I’m holding a plate, moving slow,

through the ritual of neighborhood nights.

The paper plate is starting to bow

under a scoop of heavy, sweet beans.

We’re all making small talk, wondering how

life got divided into these scenes.

It’s a pile of beige on a flimsy white rim.

A fork made of plastic that snaps in the meat.

The room is too loud and the lighting is dim,

and I’m just looking for a place for a seat.