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By Christine Stoddard
A Colonial dining ritual at the “finest public house in America”--
the Argand lamp burning bright with colza as the prime rib cools
sterling silver clinking and clanking, sleeve cuffs nearing gravy
heads bowed like monks; noiseless tongues, lips, and mouths--
all whilst the snowflakes hitch a ride with the wind before falling
on Porsches parked outside the Pilates class, and two blocks away
women eye designer clothes, and a busking clown cries on the dock,
exhausted from his day of twisting balloons, now left out in the cold,
for night has fallen and, though it is Yule, the night will still be long,
and Gadsby's Tavern is now a museum, and the artist needs a warm bed,
but all the warm beds to be had are in million-dollar restored row houses
whose residents work for Booz and send their children to Bishop Ireton.