Sister Salad
the other woman here and me,
we listen while the men talk.
she has made a hopeful tossed salad, and too much.
we appear to listenĀ
to the low crossfire of male voices,
eye-glaze doubling as engagement.
i was raised to be polite and over time have learned patience.
i write this poem in my head
while waiting them out.
our sister salad sits, untouched,
before going back home
to possibly matter.