Beneath us a plaid rug, red and black and green squares
tucked neatly and flat under plates and dirty spoons
as we eat our dainty bites of moon shaped cake.
The rug no longer tugs us down to kiss
the soft undersides of lips and napes of neck.
No longer does it buckle softly under scuffled hugs
or rucks or bares soft grass and earth
to naked arms and legs akimbo
scattering cakes, crockeryand crumbs like confetti.