dinner guests

she liked to put
out the good china when her
mother and father visited.
her sister in tow, with her next
husband.
a new table cloth
had arrived, ironed hot,
and smoothed
before spread across
the table.
new glasses too. wine, water,
thick tumblers
for her father, who wanted scotch.
the silver polished.
serving dishes, saucers and tea
cups.
the coffee machine
with an exotic brew.
all day she'd cook,
and clean, dust and wax.
fold towels for the loo.
it was just a small house,
narrowed beside
two others,
blue vinyl hiding
the quick build of wood
and shingles. outside
was the sand pit where children
would play.
a swing and a see saw,
now broken,
but inside, her gourmet
books kept
her going, days before
the guests arrived.
the house full of food you
never smelled before,
and you, watching it all,
uncertain as to why or what it
all meant, wondering why
none of this ever done for
just you two.