The poem is built from scraps of talk and thought, as if we're overhearing someone alone in a kitchen, preparing a meal for guests. The speaker fusses over tortillas, cooks "all these leaves for nothing," glances at the floor, and keeps asking whether the visitors are on their way. The lines are short and disconnected, and voices seem to blur together: it's hard to tell what is spoken aloud, what is remembered, and what is only a passing thought.
By the end, the hope sours into doubt. The speaker decides "they never intended to come," then admits the small, awkward truth: "I forgot to ask them to dinner." The mood is quietly funny and a little sad. Nobody has been let down but the speaker, who has let themselves down. The fragmented style makes the loneliness feel ordinary, like a mind drifting while waiting, and then catching itself.