Clout

The welcome mat was made of nails
nameplate dripped with apple glue.
The doorbell asked for past betrayals,
then scanned our shoes for residue.

The steel couch was stuffed with rules.
While cactus cushions passed as therapy tools
The host wore gloves and distant charm,
the handshake felt like a fire alarm.

The tea was steeped in second thoughts,
served lukewarm in apology pots.
The sugar cubes were bitter jokes,
and the omelette came without its yolks.

We slurped quietly and smiled on cue
then coughed up things we never knew.
The host refilled with trained care
and asked if we had grief to spare.

We nodded, yes, and passed tissues,
printed with outdated virtues.
Our sorrows shaped like paper clay.
we left them to dry in disarray.

The host approved of every fragile lump,
then offered hugs that made us slump.
Escorted us out with softened clout,
then laid fresh nails for mats without.