Childhood

In the apartment with the orange

shag carpet, is one long table

surrounded by chairs,

only four of them matching,

and cups and pitchers and food, and large,

silver plates for sharing, a pot,

a ladle, a child's small and noisy toy,

and all of it empty of people.

Everyone has rushed out hurriedly

in the middle. Somewhere,

that room exists still, floating

toward the sun. The meat

and grapes petrified with years. 

The cloth bleached by light

persisting through the windows.

Now the rattling of plates, the clattering

of forks and spoons. Louder to us it calls

the nearer it gets to the end. 

It is saying one last thing.