Eight bouncing bodies clutter
around a vinyl-top table, their summered
skin suctioning to dried orange pop
from last year’s family reunion.
Sixteen feet fight against four skinny
table legs and sit according
to their favorite plate—Peter Pan,
Cinderella, or the chipped big-kid
ceramic dish. They wait for parents
to scoop out erupting mashed potato-gravy
volcanoes, scrunch their noses at salty greens
that vanish to slobbery napkins, add ketchup to cheesy
macaroni—tricks the little kids taught
their littler cousins.

When the grown-ups stop looking,
start talking about politics
and ethics, eight full mouths
bicker about Charmander versus Pikachu,
who’s cuter, stronger—the kids kick
under the table at opponents,
laugh when half-chewed see-food is flung,
lodges in the older kids’ ponytails.
When one cries, beckoning unwanted
parental attention, the other seven taunt,
Cry baby.

Now near-adults, they gather
at the wood-veneered restaurant table
where their summer-eye-candy waiter delivers
bronzed potato skins sweating butter,
Caesar salads dressed with more cream than greens,
and curling fettuccine coated in garlicky sauce.

Still apart from politicking parents, grandparents,
clashing aunts and uncles, still too young to care
but old enough to understand
that their parents were right, everyone else
unfortunately misguided, uninformed.
Grandparents—mistaking forks for spoons
and missing their soup—berating their
daughters for back-talking
that mimics Limbaugh’s afternoon rant.

Over their own abandoned plates
cousins groan their discontent,
ignore the public display of infection.
While their elders fight,
the female youngins decide
which Wilson brother is the better actor,
better looker—the boy cousins compare
Batman versions—
no conclusion.
Interrupting action scene reenactments,
someone snickers as the busboy passes,
He’s so gay, provoking
a simple, noncommittal retort, So?