Clams linguine won't talk back to me tonight
No matter how many sticks of butter
I dynamite the pass with, to make it
Suitable for Skip, who turns up his snout
To all but the finest Sambuca and
The cheapest wine. It's an enigma,
Like why the Cleveland Indians always traded
Their teams away. There's an element of perversity
That shakes the cold china gravy boats
In the dining room that never recovered
From the storm of '37, despite
The dove-tailed cedar shelves and paintings in barn frames.
One's eye always goes to the booze.
The preacher of the house is always in
To bellow writhing sea tales while Ed Ames sings
Schmaltz without apology, the salty sea
Frosting the glass of the windowpane.
So much needed to be said in this room
That needed, even more, to be forgotten.
A few old jokes have been framed, some vintage
Corkscrews lay like models on a car
But otherwise there is silence,
More meaningful than noise. The sardine tins
Once stolen are still gifts when no one's there.
