Dinner Hour, December

by Eamon Grennan

In little dark-ringed frames of light
the neighborhood is dining: heads nod
to one another; candlelight catches on things----
threads of it snapped by knives and forks,
the glass of water, the wine. No one

is not at home here except the man
walking the block alone and peering in
as if he were a visitor from beyond
and wanted to feast his eyes again 
on this picture of felicity, trying to read

the lips unrestrained and quick in talk,
faces where light plays like a dog
in water----haloes of hair, hands flying.


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