Table Manners Poem by M.L. Emmett

At the table
Pentathol unconscious
man green-draped,
betadined belly peek-a-boos;
gas inert, steady Bird breathing.

Everything is ready,
peripheral lights lowered
spotlights are lit,
cutlery laid out
in silver shiny rows
the waiting boys and girls
in silence, listen
for the summons and the call.

He walks slowly to the table
commanding and aloof
like a rod-backed patriarch
from a century past.

He steps up on the wooden block,
strategically placed for sight lines,
white Wellingtons
grip and hold.

He scans the room
like a master in the cotton fields
watching his slaves
bob and weave.

Organizes his body
into a dignified pose.
A moment of grace
- time for a silent prayer -
a benediction,
before he raises his hand.

She is at his right hand,
she passes him the steel,
like mum and dad at the carving
table of the Sunday roast
and watches the knife
as the first blood
starts to run.