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.