Where shall I sit, he asks
and she directs him to his place. Here
at the head of the table where you always sit.
Children no longer, they take their seats;
a fifty year old stockbroker from Manhattan
lost in decades of cynicism
the playwright, the businessman
and she who disappeared to Korea, returning
with a moonfaced husband and six
books of Gasa verse.
He looks at them as if at strangers. Who are
these people at his table? And then at the bottles
of wine, decorated cloth, bowls of parsley,
salt water, hard boiled eggs.
Head and hands no longer vague he lifts
his illustrated book, stained with years
and in a reedy yet firm tenor reads aloud
“In each generation and generation a man must
see himself as if he personally went out of Egypt”.
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© Johnmichael Simon