Silence at Supper

Of late, she noticed,

He always complained:

She was either

Too sweet,

Or too sour;

Too spicy,

Or too bland;

Too dry,

Or too greasy;

Too sharp,

Or too salty;

Too hot,

Or too cold;

Too raw,

Or over-cooked;

Too heavy,

Or too light;

She never was

Just right.

And now he sat

Staring at the soup

She'd served;

Staring beyond the bowl,

Beyond the room,

Beyond their home,

Beyond her.

"Is the salt right?"

She asked quietly.

"Yea, just right,"

He mumbled,

Spooning it up,

His eyes still

On the just-right soup-

Staring beyond the bowl,

Beyond the room,

Beyond their home,

Beyond her.

And she knew why

She never was

Just right.

Outside,

She saw night fall,

Fast and heavy,

Like the silence

Inside.

Thus sat the two,

Three shadows

Danced on the wall.