Dave Bonta's short poem imagines a table set outdoors or in some open space, where the moon has taken every seat. Its light makes the glasses shine and the cutlery sparkle, so the scene looks like a feast just finished. Then the speaker hesitates: is that really linen, and are we really in the aftermath of a meal? The doubt suggests the "feast" may be only moonlight playing tricks, a bright surface with nobody there.
The mood is quiet, beautiful and lonely. The distant sound of an abandoned dog brings in grief, and the speaker seems to share it. The dog is "alone yet locked in orbit," a phrase that links it to the moon, circling and pulled along by something it can't reach. The closing question, "who wouldn't howl," feels less like a puzzle than a gentle admission: when the night is this lovely and this empty, longing is natural. The speaker doesn't howl, but clearly understands why someone would.