“re-olded” with nostalgia

Fireplaces burn

down back doors.

The banister is still

steeper than the steps.

Landings float me

away.

"Pass the potatoes."

Is a dinner table

whisper. 

Smiles are sufficient.

But that's what I can't grasp.

*                    *                    *

The card table seems small

for twenty.

The staircase, drab and

practical. 

Not enough seats

in this basement. 

It's dark too.

Can't keep on the

lights,

but I thought my smile

was enough.

"Pass the potatoes."

Is a midnight snack

scream.