Dinner At 8

Every night at 8

Not a minute more 

And not a minute less,

With hot food served on our plates

And cold glances exchanged,

Awkwardly so,

Our silent family dinner table conversations commence.

Cutlery breaks the ice,

By making the most noise 

Bickering about what a pain

It is to pick together basmati rice off the plate, spoon by spoon, 

Prone to scattering and falling apart the most

As dysfunctionally

As our home.

Glasses clink a few times

And, not by cheer or choice,

Only when they bump into the ring on daddy's finger

Followed by moms,

And how beautiful are the odds of that happening

One glass, one person at a time

But never together.

Just like our unsynched hearts,

Nicely arranged at specific distances.

Murmurs of hot food

Falter on our lips

As I take big bites to shush them.

With no flavors touching our tongues, mere numbing sensations,

Even accompanying it with pickles

Failed to do the trick.

Chewing seems like a herculean job,

So we swallow it, along with all the warm feelings unexpressed, 

Even if it burns.

We finish filling our tummies, 

Abiding by the unfulfilling "eat together" policy,

In discussing the interesting 

Happenings of the day with each other.

Averting our spoons,

With their face

Towards the plate,

We get up silently,

And turn ours away!