It was late afternoon . . .
The sun – just barely peeking through,
casting a warm glow across the linen dressed table.
Perfectly choreographed fine china.
Candlelight – flickering, flirting;
dancing alongside the portly glasses, adorned in red.
Turkey – carved, and presented, beautifully, on a platter.
Anticipation of a tasty, mouthwatering meal.
And, as they all gathered ‘round, cousin Bob spoke
(a question, in the form of a statement, and very profound):
“DO I HAVE A BUTT CHIN.”
And, so began the dinner table conversation . . .
“HE has a butt chin.”
“SHE has a butt chin.”
“YOU have a butt chin.”
“What IS a BUTT chin?”
“I DO NOT HAVE A BUTT CHIN!!!”
Suddenly, Grandma Rose,
who is sometimes there (sometimes, not), chimed in:
“With a chin like that, I’ll bet your mom had a hard time
figuring out which end to diaper.”
Then, cousin Bob spoke up, again.
“Who can touch their tongue to the tip of their nose?”
And, the dinner conversation continued . . .