dinner party

if anne tyler shows up, we’ll have homesick for dessert
and she’ll teach us how to breathe and forgive

hemingway is sure to want venison, but after
an extra tall absinthe, he’ll make do with chicken

as miss plath lights the candles and serves up
bitter cookies dressed in marzipan and red

garth stein arrives dripping wet, a bit shy and
empty-handed, claiming the dog ate his casserole

which makes david wroblewski snort

and when erin morgenstern sits down we hear a barker
hawking tickets to a game of musical chairs

a plan mr. king is all for as the table suddenly expands
and the sun starts to sing in the corner

rosamunde pilcher brings bread pudding and roses
and insists that she sit next to salinger

though of course, his chair remains empty and

anne sexton is the life of the party, wearing pearls
and wry and eventually landing in vonnegut’s lap

while franzen sneers behind one perfect hand, his plate
filled with words no one else cares to sample

as toni morrison whispers with somerset maugham,
heads bent in an endless discussion

dostoevsky is straining to hear

cummings offers up broken cake and colored water
he pulls from the pockets of his coat

when edith wharton smiles at mark danielewski
picking leaves from the hem of emily’s dress

and mark helprin sits in the corner, alone
taking notes with long cold fingers

as laura ingalls passes chipped plates



A little fun today, planning dinner with some favorite authors.
Who would you invite to your party?
A poem a day for 30 days, in honor of National Poetry Month.
This post is part of NaPoWriMo, see more here.



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