Banquet of Crumbs
So enamored with our fanciful illusion
As we recline on separate couches
The glare from the television
Piercing the nocturnal haze
Safe with the conjurer’s hand
We dance our psychic tango
Intoxicated with the belief
That the shields work just fine
Elated to once again slip away
From that other universe
Twelve miles from here
Where my wife gently slumbers
Here is our banquet
Cork crumbs in the zinfandel
How can we possibly know
That this will be our last supper?
– James Stephens, 1st Place in Poetry