By Stephen Vincent Benét
(For, though not to, D. M. C.)
The member with the face like a pale ham
Settles his stomachs in the leather chair.
The member with the mustard-color hair
Chats with the member like a curly ram,
Then silence like the shutting of a clam,
Gulps, and slow eating, and the waiters’ stare—
Like prosperous leeches settling to their fare
The members gorge, distending as they cram.
And I am fiery ice—and a hand knocks
Inside my heart. Three hours till God comes true,
When there’s no earth or sky or time in clocks
But only hell and paradise and you.
Life bows his strings! I shout the amazing tune!
...The dullest member drops his coffee spoon.
--------
On Tuesday morning I did a bunch of pre-holiday chores around the house and worked on getting my new computer to work with our ancient printer on holiday card address labels (if you're reading this and your address has changed since last December, please let me know ASAP). It rained the entire day, the Snoqualmie River is in flood stage, and I didn't even get out to take a walk because I had a virtual appointment with my new primary care doctor about medicines right before my Voyager Zoom call.
Two of our group did not make it at all and another was running as late as I was, so we ended up just chatting instead of watching "Fair Haven" -- which we also couldn't get to stream on two of our computers. Paul made vegetarian sauerbraten for Krampusnacht (and devil's food cake, but he forgot we were out of powdered sugar for the frosting so we're eating that late). We've spent the evening watching the end of the second season of Slow Horses. Some of the color at Brookside Gardens a week or so ago:
No comments:
Post a Comment