When the body and the blood have graduated;
Beyond the bones and
& Whistling lips.
When spirits dance off this planet,
Onto the next;
Forks and knives,
Dracula reserve the right to take part.
Taking part in this flight of the condor.
If they do,
They do so in the sanctity of meticulously labeled drawers,
Touched by many hands,
(A carpenters to start)
By quick hands,
By the graceful caress of hands fallen limp.
These utensils brought together from so many different places,
And then assembled in this parsonage;
Attended with an unbridled patronage;
Occasional knives of sterling silver used to carve meat from bone
See no qualm rubbing elbows with stainless steel spoons,
Whose primary use is scooping up what’s left of the chocolate pudding.
Decorated punch bowls born into worlds of glass,
Will fit snugly inside the warm embrace of
The whimsical plastic bowls that house
The fruit salad.
The same way the moon fits into a cold sky.
Scores of assorted mugs line the cabinets,
Some chipped ones, moved towards the back after repeated use.
Some are painted with portraits of fish.
Then there are others,
Coffee mugs with such eccentric prints that both the wallpaper that peels
On the wall behind
Will both seek
To strike like lightning…
In order to change their syntax
Their environment entirely.
Skillets and cauldrons take many posts around the busy kitchen.
Bubbling with fat
Left to simmer on stove tops.
Left to conjure up conjectures.
Some rest like tired grey elephants, backs and bottoms tired from lifting,
And some have made their way to the churches nursery, in a cursory fashion.
Now are played like steel drums on the banks of faraway islands,
Welcoming incoming rowboats.
Welcoming the waning tides.
All the different metals resonate with hymns and gravity.
Cast and galvanized alike, hypnotized
By ticking clocks.
Stainless and fine China,
Punctuated by those same clocks,
Whose alarms have now sounded.
A few of these good dishes,
Wrapped more tightly than most pharaohs
In order to provide for the next millennia.
…For at least the next luncheon.
(Even some desserts)
(That one’s that can see their own breaths)
Are tucked away in the cold,
Where there is light, only when the door opens.
And darkness when it is not.
They were chosen to preserve the myth of leftovers,
By a committee wearing yellow gloves
Filled with crumbs and dystrophy.
Who will utter mostly kind words, and
Smell of talcum powder and gameshows.
These reverent dishes know that they
Can safely rest behind the doors of the refrigerator.
Behind the walls of Jericho.
Disguised with many magnets,
Introducing the colorful alphabet to such unlikely allies,
As take-out menus
Handwritten directions to a nearby shopping mall.
Drawing up contingency plans, for the fragile eggs,
Formulating an exit strategy,
To protect the ambivalent potato salad.
The yellow margarine is left uncovered…
On a white plate.
On a counter top.
For just a little bit more.
The loaf of bread has fallen asleep.
Separate bottles of oil and vinegar remain upright.
The thermostat setting, turned only half way,
If, for nothing else,
To keep the deviled eggs, from freezing over,
In this time of revelation.