by Dan Masterson
Linen napkins, spotless from the wash starched
And ironed, smelling like altar cloths. Olives
And radishes wet in cut glass, a steaming gravy bowl
Attached to its platter, an iridescent pitcher cold
With milk, the cream stirred in moments before.
The serving fork, black bones at the handle, capped
In steel, tines sharp as hatpins. Stuffed celery,
Cut in bite-sized bits, tomato juice flecked
With pepper, the vinegar cruet full to the stopper
Catching light from the chandelier.
Once-a-week corduroyed plates with yellow trim,
A huge mound of potatoes mashed and swirled.
Buttered corn, side salads topped with sliced tomatoes,
A tall stack of bread, a quarter-pound of butter
Warmed by its side. And chicken, falling off the bone:
Crisp skin baked sweet with ten-minute bastings.
Homemade pies, chocolate mints and puddings,
Coffee and graceful glasses of water, chipped ice
Clinking the rims.
Cashews in a silver scoop, the centerpiece a milkglass
Compote with caved-in sides, laced and hung
With grapes, apples, and oranges for the taking.
Although it is pleasant to see my poem, "Sunday Dinner," showcased once again, I am disappointed that you didn't bother to secure my permission before using it. The original permission was obtained by The Massachusetts Review. The poem later appeared in my second collection: Those Who Trespass, published by The University of Arkansas Press. Garrison Keillor also secured permission to read it on his radio program: Writer's Almanac. It has also appeared on many other sites; however, permission was granted in each instance. I wish you had followed the tradition. -Dan Masterson
ReplyDeleteDan, many apologies. What would you like me to do at this point?
ReplyDelete