There’s nothing in the chafing trays but meat;
the temperature is rising by degrees;
the room is full of people I should meet.
For many, this is what they call a treat:
coolers of beer, and pyramids of cheese,
and nothing in the chafing trays but meat.
The people clump together, smile, and greet,
and touch, and nod, and stand and shoot the breeze.
The room is full of people I should meet
but don’t—I don’t—I’m frozen on my feet,
and feel the numbness rising past my knees,
and nothing more. The chafing trays of meat
are popular: so many hands compete
to pluck the choicest morsels. Should I squeeze
across the room of people I should meet
I know that no one’s hand will reach for me,
moving like a shadow through the trees.
The room is full of people I should meet.
There’s nothing in the chafing trays but meat.
David Danoff lives in the Washington, DC, area and works for the federal government. His poems and reviews have appeared or are forthcoming in The Yale Review, Poet Lore, The Raintown Review, Measure, The Lyric, Snakeskin, Antiphon, The Orchards, Unsplendid, Tikkun, Pleiades, and elsewhere.
