Eighteenth Century Pastimes
Another parlor game, sirrah, or sport
of honor with blades or blunderbuss
pistols? To finger a harpsichord rescued
from fire so hot on a snow-driven
night--by our melody we know it's best
to be reborn on Venus instead of Mars. To savor this
perfume: We may cheat at trick
taking games, spread our cards to kill
an hour with ruff-and-honours, blast
a quail or hum some Dryden--these moments feign
eternity. We won't be interrupted. The vicar's
fist on our heart pine door to give us
blessings, a sleight of hand that kindles
the beginnings that cast the shadow of our end.
