Die Stimme

For years I hardly spoke above a whisper.
When the assembled clan pounded the table,
Quarreling about money or manners, my teeth
Punched stars and crescents in their transfers.
But at last the red trolleys quit running:
At the end stop, upholstered aunts and uncles
Got heavily down to consume their last supper.
Now I can shout loudly from the rooftops,
Though houses and neighbors are not so tall
And the right occasions seldom presented.
Moreover, the urge to defend each fortress
Seems to have vanished. Old abstractions
Hang out rear windows like rugs in April
That need hard beating. If families gather
At the rare intersections, they merely nod
And avoid entanglement, far wiser than I
Who compensate for those tongue-tied decades
With a clenched voice and a stale message.
My face grows red from the wrong reasons.
A ghost is my guest who talks of privilege.
We know better, but rave on regardless,
For silver and crystal were never topics
That passed as treasure from ruler to ruled
When I sat dumb in the kingdom of dollars.