The Hostess

she cooks carefully, the plain brown carton
of eggs balanced perilously on a stack of
her mother’s and grandmother’s cookbooks
adjacent to the stove; a platter lined with
six half empty bottles of syrups,
from Fredericksburg, Austin,
her last trip to Boston, random others
perches at the edge of the sink, next
to a stack of vintage tablecloths she
bought on sale at auction last weekend.
she carries the food to her guests seated
at the immaculately presented table,
matching tablecloth, napkins, silverware,
glasses, butter dish, enough room
for everyone to sit comfortably,
even the tall young man sitting next to
his cute little blonde girlfriend.
she hurries back into her kitchen,
skirting the stack of dog bowls on the
floor next to the New Yorker magazines
that she hasn’t caught up on yet.
After breakfast, she murmurs to herself,
she’ll have to sit down a spell after breakfast
and get some reading done.