At the house of the parents of my middle-aged friends.
Such a breathless spell about it,
A silent waiting for tragedy
Under the cheery chat of a Sunday afternoon dinner,
The reassurance that everyone has a place at the table
And just possibly a place forever —
If at least one of us can
Master the secret of eternal life
And rescue the rest.
I go to see my friends, and be seen of them,
And play the thinking game,
And this is where they go again and again.
But our breathless shells bounce off each other
And we never meet, never follow each other into the
Question and the mystery.
This must wait.
We are cordial and kind and
Very, very careful not to change the routine,
Break the spell.
Tomorrow shall be like yesterday
And there shall never be today at all until it comes.
This is the studied calm before the tragedy
That will shake us and change us
And finally put yesterday into a hard little bubble
To be set on the mantle with the pictures
As we go on with the lives
That become the delicate relics that our children
Will carefully cherish
As they wait.
