Dinner at Eight

I find a plateful
of remorse
on the table,
a bitter roll,
sour soup,
tasteless love.
Tough meat.
The spice is gone.
It's the meal
we've come to know
in this shell
of a marriage.
Where once
it was a banquet,
a feast, now
it's sparse
and hardly worth
the sit.
But we'll go through
the motions
for another year,
politely pass
whatever each one
needs,
quietly biding
our time
as we chew in
mindful silence.
The knot has been
untied for sometime.
It's just a matter
now of who gets
what and when,
keeping the lawyer
bill down. Honey,
could you please
pass me the salt.
Thank you, dear.