Poem: At The Meal's End

At The Meal's End

We all are quiet, seated
with coffee and dessert
still on the table,
though the check is paid,
and you say nothing
but rise and go to leave,
standing with the force of a demand.
But when I comment to the rest of the table,
"it seems we are done,"
you grow agitated
and respond.
You seem so certain
that I am the rude one,
and maybe it was unkind,
my annoyance, but still,
consider it again.  At most
I was your echo.

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