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The dinner


By Fly AlonePublished 2 months ago 1 min read
The dinner
Photo by Jed Owen on Unsplash

It was a pleasant evening

I was there at your home

You had invited me for dinner

The kitchen was in the corner of the drawing room

While you were preparing the food

We talked about the American election

Trump was your favorite

You believed he would be nominated

I was not interested in politics

So I kept listening to you quietly

You put the food on the dining table

We finished and then had two pegs of Sherry, the wine you love

I praised your delicious food

And getting up

I said, Pack me up the leftover food

You asked, Why, don't you cook food at your home?

I replied, Yes, we do

But it is not made by your hands.

You just smiled.


love poems

About the Creator

Fly Alone

Hello! I am a poet and writer. I write whatever comes in my mind.

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Comments (2)

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  • Manisha Dhalani2 months ago

    Aww! Sweet. Curious about the hashtag, though.

  • "But it's not made by your hands". That was so sweet! Loved your poem!

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