It made me feel small, like a husband, <br />and I never married, never owned <br /> <br />a table worth turning over, china <br />worth shattering, linen worth blood <br /> <br />from the cut hand I sucked and cursed <br />and wrapped in a torn shirt, in a pocket. <br /> <br />Can't they make it new again, those bees, <br />those communist women at their weaving? <br /> <br />It was only the long lines, the slow, <br />enforced pace, solemnity, cold white glitter; <br /> <br />I was only too proud to eat cold history, <br />to stand in the breadlines at the tomb; <br /> <br />I only declined the feast in the mausoleum <br />as Yesenin did, who wrote his regrets in blood.<br /><br />Eric Torgersen<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-man-who-broke-up-the-dinner-party-answers/
