The Dinner Party

I went to a dinner party the other night. It caused me so much angst that I wrote a poem.

Please remember, I am NOT a poet. I have wrote maybe six poems in my life, this one included.

The Dinner Party

It's a dinner party.

You've all been there.

This looks scrumptious, you say

as you sit in your chair.

You bite a morsel,

Filled with flavour and zest,

Another few bites 

and you've gulped down the rest.

You sit back in your chair 

your stomach a happy beast.

You give kudos to the chef

for the wonderful feast.

Now this is where 

it starts to go awry.

The host looks at the food

and out escapes a loud sigh.

Rather than accept with a nod

or a gracious thank you.

The cook starts a long spiel

Oh, what a to-do.

The meat was no good,

To hell with the lot.

It's the worst meal they've made.

It was like eating wood-rot.

The next bash comes at time,

there wasn't enough.

Had they had longer,

it would not be so rough.

Oh no, you start

but get interrupted.

Then they go on,

the herbs calumniated.

It goes on for minutes,

but you sit there and wait.

The time will come

to say what you hate.

From those in need of approval

it's a cry out for praise.

Their self-esteem

in need of a raise. 

So you support their habit

like drink for a drunk.

I shake my head,

oh, to what lows I have sunk.

I always say

as I'm leaving the house,

the next time they seek

they will find a louse.

I'll agree their cooking

was rotten as hell.

Almost went for the toilet

because of the smell.

But would that solve the problem?

I think that's how it started.

Not enough praise 

from parents long departed.

But, what do I do?

I keep my words to myself.

Cause I hate to cook

and want free meals at their house. 

ann elle altman