Member Poem

Table for twelve, please
And now the telemarketers, the waiters
The caterers, the sales clerks,
Teachers, accountants
Assemble
A jury, no.  The brethren
Never judge
And they are freshly washed
Eyes often sleepless
Hearts never sleeveless
And Laura has arrived late
To sit at the right hand of the author

Ray, older Ray
Pall Mall larynx in exile
Tonight
Thumbing for a ride on
The fluorescent yellow line
Journeyman, journey, man
Appearing this evening as Roger Moore
Only in this space

Now Laura brushes gently
Vague bemusement
In tones
Silk and lyrical
Burnished latticework is the language
Filigreed and tendrilous
Testimony of love, of war
Of love, of what
Is a well-worn toe shoe that
Author stitches to the generous
Sole of a new black service oxford
Brethren breathe and
Inhale the microbial discharge
Of faith and furnace in this space
Always forgiving and
Waiting to speak