They pass the plate between them
mother to daughter, father to son,
a communion stretching to forever
until the plates are full
and father and son retire to
the living room to watch the game.
The mother advises on the adornment’s
of the daughter, the father pats the son
for his stratagems of the future.
They have always been this way and the
singing cold coming from the window
only makes them closer to one another,
that thing they do to get through
this meal and the next and life.
How many solitary meals they had
together they can’t remember.
They know not what they have
given up, if they gave up anything,
only that the meal was solid and filling.
Our Last Suppers
2 responses to “Our Last Suppers”
i love the sounds thid poem makes!Loading…
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