by Joseph D. Milosch
I remember the shade of the kitchen light,
my mother wearing a green sweater, john’s
jean patch on his sleeve, my white sweat shirt,
and Dave wanted to fight for his right
to wear his red flannel undershirt.
Mike laughed as his teeth sliced
syllables of his speech.
Dan wiped tomato sauce
from his lips and cheeks.
He flipped a drop
right on impeccable Sue’s blouse.
Mary bit the tip of her braid
and pulled her dress over her slip.
Folding her hands in her lap,
she looked at the light, rather
than let Sue know about the stain.
Dad, his tie pinned with a ruby clasp,
smiled, unaware of the game.
Finishing his pipe, he spoke
about the apostles being diligent.
We bowed our heads, said grace,
kept a moment of silence
as steam from the blue gill
became almost invisible.