435. LEFT AT THE GATE

LEFT AT THE GATE
You can always hold me later;
some marvelous penitentiary like
your jewelled mind should bedazzle.
All at once, it is August again - you
know how that goes - and we are already
making plans for next year. The walrus runs
to the right, the small change jangles in my
overstuffed pockets. 'You always have
something to say', you say.
-
Hands at the gate distort the memory of
those lilies which grew by the post. Old
wood, from eighty years back, still managing
to hang on - and each time you slammed the
gate its hinges rattled and shook the post.
I remember that well.
-
My grandmother came by, once, with
a bowlful of flower petals. 'Eat them slowly',
she said, 'just as we did when we were little
children. They're quite good.' I remember
remarking, 'but grandma, they
taste just like ivory.'