"Pain" is that thing we pass round
After Emily Dickenson — "Hope" is the thing with feathers
Pain is that thing we pass round
The table, warm and brown,
Not so much made as found,
Our potatoes to drown,
With solicitous hands and lips,
In something called a boat,
Accomp'nying assorted quips,
And table talk and gloat;
Still glazes the plate after
All's eaten and all's said;
Then with embarrassed laughter,
Sopped with a bit of bread.
After Emily Dickenson — "Hope" is the thing with feathers
Pain is that thing we pass round
The table, warm and brown,
Not so much made as found,
Our potatoes to drown,
With solicitous hands and lips,
In something called a boat,
Accomp'nying assorted quips,
And table talk and gloat;
Still glazes the plate after
All's eaten and all's said;
Then with embarrassed laughter,
Sopped with a bit of bread.
Comment