sunday morning

they parents come
for brunch. to the beautiful
red and pink
table
set so well. the flowers,
the flutes
of crystal filled
with champagne and juice.
the napkins folded
just so.
we make
French toast
and quiche.
bacon, potatoes
and bread.
the father, his coat
and hat still on, ready to leave,
looks at the design
of fruit
circled on the plate
and whispers,
I don't want to disturb it.
it's beautiful,
so he plucks a blueberry
off the top
and smiles.
his wife, her mother
beside him,
a sweater around her thin
shoulders, sips
on a mimosa, delicately
eating what's on her plate.
she's happy, she's says
in French, happy
that her
child is happy.
telling me to love her,
to which I say, of course.
of course,
I do.