Leave Something

by Keith Walker

Near the end
of Thanksgiving dinner
you ask a simple question–
why did you leave
those last three pieces
of roasted vegetables
on the platter?

A guest proposes
maybe it’s a southern thing–
it’s impolite to take
the last piece of anything.
I let that rattle around
but it doesn’t quite fit
the shape of my silence
in the midst of our banter.

Staring at the delicate
tendrils on my mother’s china
that lives mostly in the attic now
I say no

I just don’t want it
all to be gone.