The table was set with odd pieces of crockery and odd pieces of silverware. Sirloin (medium-rare) was served with fresh salad and homemade vegetable soup. Rye bread was on the table, and margarine, and cottage cheese as well. Odd old tumblers were filled with sugar-free soft drinks, over cloudy cubes of ice. Four people were seated at the round oak table with its three ponderous, oddly-shaped legs.
The fifth chair was vacant. On the sixth was a portable television set, turned on. The program featured animal behaviorist, Jane Goodall. She had lived five years in the African bush, observing chimpanzees in their wild habitat. Having learned much about their patterns of social behavior, she was sure there were valuable lessons here for homo sapiens. The diners were oddly amused.
Older daughter consented to visit that evening. It was her birthday after all! Younger son was home from the current conflict, home on Christmas leave. Woman of the house (Mother) was preparing once again to embark upon her winter escape to Florida. He who paid the bills ( Father ) was home from work, for a change. Three of them sang "Happy Birthday To You" in rough harmony, odd and seldom heard.
The daughter blew out the one candle on her cake, helped with the dishes, and soon left. She never returned. The son stayed until his break came to an end. Then he left too, never to return. Mother finished her packing and left for warmer climes. She didn't return either. Father went to sleep early. The next day he arouse, shaved and dressed. Then he left for work, returning each night only to sleep.
Oddly enough, the two-flat is still there... on the second landing, the modest dining room with its odd assortment of refurbished Salvation Army furniture. The table is still draped with an "embroidery-look" dacron cloth. (It could melt, but it won't ever fade.) Around the old table stand the six, re-upholstered oak chairs. Covered in aqua-blue vinyl, they are all vacant now. Not very odd, is it?
Marco Polo made a trip aboard a solo ship back
from Oriental shores. Or was he in a group
of merchants, or perchance, a troupe of madmen?
You cannot say. You don't remember. Does it matter?
Better minds than yours forget at times.
They say that crimes of passion are in fashion.
But then, when were they not? An awful lot
of just such goings on took place in Polo's day.
Or was it night? You cannot say. You don't remember.
In November you were born long ago but many years
too late to know the age of Polo. Such a game!
It came from where you do not care to say.
You cannot say. You don't remember things you never knew.
The crew of any ship that sailed in Marco's era
left the terra firma for a shaky ground.
The sound and fury of the Sea, it signifying
nothing less than Hell itself. An end to life
and limb. Or is it just the start? You cannot say.
You don't remember what it is that people say
when dead so long. Did Marco Polo from the grave
impart to anyone wise or witty words? Herds
of Buffalo say no. But you're not sure. You cannot say,
remembering much better than you care to, flocks
of Dodo birds no words will ever bring to life.