There is a standard purpose for
a formal dinner on the lawn.
It's not a time for soft new words
but for talking through the things

we've already known, gone over and

over like the mincing words of aunts you
never want to see. Sweat
on an iced tea glass, and taffeta not for summer sticks

to the backs of thighs. Confused hands
get in the way of one another, words

left unsaid in the sounds of plates and
innocent clinks of forks and ice.

Rosemarie Koch

If you've any comments on this poem, Rosemarie Koch would be pleased to hear from you.