Lunch at a City Club

Stephen Vincent Benét

(For, though not to, D. M. C.)

The member with the face like a pale ham

Settles his stomachs in the leather chair.

The member with the mustard-color hair

Chats with the member like a curly ram,

Then silence like the shutting of a clam,

Gulps, and slow eating, and the waiters’ stare—

Like prosperous leeches settling to their fare

The members gorge, distending as they cram.

And I am fiery ice—and a hand knocks

Inside my heart. Three hours till God comes true,

When there’s no earth or sky or time in clocks

But only hell and paradise and you.

Life bows his strings! I shout the amazing tune!

…The dullest member drops his coffee spoon.