The dinner had an odd look to it,
Confusion about the dressing cruet.
To say chaos was surely valid.
When Auntie put dressing on her salad,
It splashed onto Uncle Charlie’s tie,
Ricocheted back into her eye,
Blopped on the border of her skirt,
New designs on Papa’s clean, white shirt
Stammering, helpless, Mama said,
“Shake it out with the cap on instead.
There’s a hole in it to dispense,
Too late to hope to make some sense.”
Within her heart, she felt a wrench.
Ranch would have caused less stains than French.
©08/15/2011 Carol Morfitt