If I could pick nine dinner dates
to form join a table set for ten,
I might know where I’d start my search
but I don’t know where I’d end.
The first five choices would come quick
and if they would just agree to read
my writing, good and bad, then I would
flatter them by naming them aloud.
Number six would from my community
who shines her beacon bright,
whose soul selflessly sings ‘Zimmer Frei’
every hour of day and night.
Seven would be—I’d want him back—
my dear departed Dad. Give eight to Mom,
though I had more time with her,
cause without her he won’t come.
Nine, the last, the final spot: I’m torn;
I may have no choice choice.
I may just leave it empty and see
who needs to share their voice.