You spread your lies in front of me
with all the artistry
and ease of a Russian grandmother
smoothing the wrinkles of a linen
before the Sabbath meal.
Your lies and self-deceptions
are antique cups and
translucent, brittle, beautiful and sad.
You set them, one by
one and carefully,
on clean, white linen.
No need to set a place for me.
I'm not here to be charmed
with your slow and practiced dance,
the bad coffee, your small-talk.
I'm not here to tell you that I know
your things are packed already,
you will run again without goodbyes.
I'm here to see you one more time
and, in the silence you
I'll help you set your grand oak table
with linen cloth and
and one last lie.