Dinner
The food is as ready as my stomach.
I set out clean, crisp plates as I did from eight to eighteen.
I brush color on my porcelain plate–salad, broccoli,
chicken, fettuccine in sync with Mom, Dad, and Kenzie.
I fill mine, for now we have four colorful covered plates.

Salad
The vegetables are as beautiful as my sister.
I see iceberg lettuce, cherry tomatoes, orange bell peppers, and hard boiled egg.
I shake Zesty Italian Dressing, drenching my salad.
Share the last of the cherry tomatoes, as always, with Mom, Dad, and Kenzie.
I stab the last piece of lettuce, cleaning a first color off my plate.

Broccoli
The branches are as strong as my dad.
I bite off tree tops.
I begin a conversation about my day,
bantering about homework with Mom, Dad, and Kenzie.
I bring the last piece to my mouth, cleaning a second color off my plate.

Chicken
The seasonings are as zesty as my mom.
I cut bite size pieces.
I confess electrifying college news, and
converse about my future with from Mom, Dad, and Kenzie.
I count two piece left, one piece left, none left, cleaning a third color off my plate.

Fettuccine
The noodles are as close as my family.
I fit a large fork full in my mouth. 
I fight the urge to smile because my cheeks start to hurt.
Feel connected with Mom, Dad, and Kenzie.
I finish dinner, cleaning the last color off my plate.