The Sweet Smell of Supper

We are the second violin, the middle child.
Neglected, unwanted, we hang around
To get the scraps the bulldogs have left behind.

Words tumble from our empty stomachs,
Staining linens on the softest pillows
Placed once for you...and me.

Stepmother is busy and we but noisy children,
Ungrateful and questioning our place
In this world of heated polymorphic pixels.

Art is our cousin and the Muse, our goddess,
But Sarcasm and Wistful stamp through the halls
Demanding attention so loudly
That the echoes of Inspiration can barely be heard.

The rumble before dinner is trouble,
But the feast is just starting to bubble.