A Question of Meantime

A QUESTION OF MEANTIME 

And just when you slip into the bright

thought that you might have drawn the card

which lets you skip the dark square

and stay in the game until it's time

to pack it all back into the box,

it’s suddenly the friend of a friend

or the freshman when you were a senior, 

an old teammate’s little sister

whose name you can almost remember.

At dinnertime a cold wind

creaks open the door and now

the stray dog–whose many attacks

down the street you’ve read about 

on your way out–is snuffling 

beneath the table around your feet.

Just how much more bread

can the silver knife butter

when the hair on his back

is wet with more than dew?

Such fare takes plenty of time

to chew, may never go down, 

but right now what the children want

is butter on their bread, 

and the dead, if they could, would

take the knife and lather it on 

thick. At least for tonight, 

yours the knife, the children,

the butter stick. Salt it to taste, 

then bless the dead their rest.