“Is there not something in me fit to contain you?”
Thus the author addresses the reader,
with a calm look as if presenting a menu
to a patron with gestures that might entreat her
not to grab her coat when she notices
that the entrée is penciled in from night to night,
that the maitre d’ is wrapped up in poultices
and walks with a limp from having to fight
to make sure that everything reaches the table
before it gets cold, before the help gobbles up,
like the greedy servant in the fable,
nearly half of the nicely seasoned vegetables
and pours the last of the bottle into his cup.
“If so, would you care for coffee or tea?
And how shall I call upon you to come to me?”
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[Next: The Crucial Point]