Sunday Dinner in the Pandemic
Susan Coultrap-McQuin
We sit in our Toyota and Nissan,
side-by-side in parking spots,
while other cars circle, like we did
as teenagers trolling for love.
This place was for Saturday night sins
of darkness and stolen kisses.
Sundays we’d be at grandma’s house,
well behaved, dressed up and prim.
That dinner with china and silver,
glasses filled with milk to the brim,
roast beef and baked potatoes
on a table of cream-colored linen.
Saturdays were for burgers, root beer,
ordering late-night snacks on a tray.
This Sunday those trays are rusty
and the hair on our heads is gray.
We eat in our car, just the two of us.
In the next one, the four of them sit.
Our grandchildren wave with delight,
eating their corn dogs and fries.
Then we say goodbye through windows,
not with hugs and kisses at our door.
The clean-up is crumpled papers,
the masks on our faces restored.