the dinner

she made her phone calls
throughout the day, asking
her old friends, good friends,
those that had made her life
brighter and perhaps better
with laughter and work, in
troubles and pain, all being
a part of who she was, who
they were, giving each of
them an invitation, and
so they came to dinner,
alone or in pairs, from places
far, places near, and they ate,
they drank, it was all on her,
it was her idea, she missed all
of them, and the night went long,
with conversation and laughter,
kisses on the cheek, warm
embraces, embellishments of years
gone by, under the dim lights,
and music of the restaurant
that she loved. she insisted
that everyone, everyone have
a wonderful decadent dessert
before they left and went off
into the cold darkness, and then,
that night, she went home, put a
bullet in a gun and killed herself.