Their Tableless Kitchen

They bow with wingless backs filling with arthritis
Over porcelain plates laid on the floor.
A once weekly favorite, beets that bled into
sweet pickles and porcine hocks shucked
of the hooves that had sunk into the flux of April.

Out of a sleeve, and a blouse pocket,
Long ago fell a marked card, a lucky coin,
And so there was the uselessness of open secrets.

Maybe the doorbell will ring and possibly might
Stand a live vintage technicolor salesman
carrying a tallow briefcase grained in ruddy
auburn and pouching curbside contents.

And once there was a round maple table
Under which legs hid dances still drunk on
midnight’s syrup. Soaring above mulled berries
Were mouths with the tastes of surprise breakfasts.

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