The tight press of the mismatched chairs
highlights the heat still pouring out of the oven
despite the chill of the night air outside
the windows thrown wide and the open door.
Pans and plates line the plastic tablecloth,
sections scarred and melted from old hot pots,
as seven people becomes eight and then nine.
We have neighbors and coworkers and new
arrivals with old friends visiting for one night
before they drive away in the morning light,
their jeep rattling out of sight one last time.
For now, we'll share undercooked brownies,
oversweet wine, ice cream that melts too fast,
and hot lasagna in oppressively hot room,
and we'll weave stories and share memories
and forget how painful it is to say good-bye
to another set of friends with maps in their eyes.
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