Did I see it on a 'recommended reading' list, or a late-night
trawl though the web- I can't recall. But the title
of the thing stuck with me, the way you can't remember
the name of  your  seventh-grade algebra teacher
but sure as hell remember his astringent aftershave.
Like that.

'Evil Sits at the Dinner Table'.
And instantly it's off to the races: I'm supposed
to contemplate the vagaries of domestic violence,
but instead I'm seeing Evil, capital E, pulling
up a ladder-back and spreading the napkin
on an infernal lap, passing the pasta salad
politely to the left. Grinning an evil grin.

But that's just ridiculous. I know evil sits
at the dinner table. In HIS chair, in HIS spot and
don't you forget it, boy. He also breathes nerve gas
and drips acid from his lips, and you don't want
to be the one next to him tonight, because Mom made spaghetti
and remembered to puree the tomatoes and not add
too much oregano this time. But we are all out of Parmesan.
And Cheddar.