OUR DINING ROOM SINGS THE BLUES

I

On holidays when candles were lit,
our dining room came alive
on antimacassar-covered chairs,
with Fellini-like family,
who arrived, ready to entertain.

Uncle Don always sang
“The Road to Mandalay,”
wearing a lampshade.

His wife recited poems
to the iambic pentameter
of “The Night Before Christmas.”

Cousin Gerry’s trumpet rendition
of “What Is This Thing Called Love,?”
would have made Miles smile
and think he never died.

Cousin Harold held forth
by opening his shirt
exposing vestigial nipples
that ran down his chest.

II
Our dining room is now full of ghosts
who listen to the silence.

Glued to laptops, guests come and go,
and barely wave hello.

The young listen to Lady Gaga on
Ipods, and text and tweet
about why the light went out
in their favorite star:

Amy, here for a moment,
a passing butterfly,
who vanished

without saying goodbye.