Ellipsis

"Grace before meals" 
waited to be spoken

on a melting summer's day,
sun's yellow-white

splashed with abandon,
glistening on metal.

Corn on the cob, zucchini grilling,

chicken sizzling . . . . . 
Things that taste buds remember.

So hungry was she,

waiting,

waiting,

waiting

for all to sit,

to say "Grace."

(Please, she hoped, let it be soon.)

She looked up to the right,

to the chic white deck chairs,

thinking vaguely about

her mother.

When she looked back

to the table,

all were eating with relish.

Beastly, thought she.

"Grace" neglected -- a disgrace --

and she'd waited so long just to say it.

Outraged within (poised to scold),
she exclaimed,

"We didn't say 'Grace!'"

Silence.

Eyes rose, then heads.

Husband said quietly, "We just did." 

The silence gaped.

She ventured,

"Did I?"

"Yes,"

husband said;

"Yes,"

friend said;

"Yes,"

all eyes confirmed.

The mute deck chairs,
stark and white,

gazed on.

Had they, too, seen her

pray?