Dinner Parties

Clad in the pale pink light

Streaming in from the utmost window

She cast her eye on the lost souls

Dressed in their best garbs

Hand stitched with secrets

Complete with their own counterfeit

Silver linings

The women as false as their powdered faces

The men as obscene as politics allowed them

In this dated scene

Of a common dinner party

The type found in old Austen novels

The modern calendar

May attempt to state differently

But the number of sunrises

And sunsets

Cannot alter the simple truth

That we are all just performing our civilities

All the while contesting those ancestry traits

That still fester under the surface.




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