The November wind was springy that day,

A trampoline among cranky bah-humbugs.

Salt and pepper danced and danced and danced,

And we felt we'd never die, because surely this was Heaven.

The forks were the first to notice it, clattering

Like agitated cattle before electricity and bellows.

The glasses surely noticed it too, for they fell

thud! against the mahogany like beheaded lumber in the woods.

That made the knives still.

It made everything still.

The chairs shifted expectantly toward the doorway,

A pious congregation with brimstone in mind and dread in heart.

Even the napkins hushed their white fluttering, swans

Folding their wings awkwardly, interrupted mid-landing.

The plates lay silent without chattering forks,

For wordless bookworms sit emptily in corners.

The steaming turkey shivered and sneezed,

A puppy dumped on the side of the freeway.

All turned.

All waited.

It was a Thursday, or would've been if

That kind of a day could be put on a calendar.

The table must've forgotten about us,

Because good servants never disobey good masters.

Not that it matters now.

Not that anything mattered then.

She didn't make it.