Jun 2016
Our Last Supper, in truth, was a luncheon, but no matter-
It’s the breaking of bread, the holy communion,
The wine, the Manhattans, the beer that counts.
Together one last time, raising our glasses to “whatever”
Vowing to preserve our little circle, no matter what
Like the heartbroken little apostles that we are.
Before our meal’s done, we plan the next Sacred Gathering
A cookout in August, a “*** luck” in February, and so on,
Because one “Last Supper” is never enough
It’s the breaking of bread, the holy communion,
The wine, the Manhattans, the beer that counts.
Together one last time, raising our glasses to “whatever”
Vowing to preserve our little circle, no matter what
Like the heartbroken little apostles that we are.
Before our meal’s done, we plan the next Sacred Gathering
A cookout in August, a “*** luck” in February, and so on,
Because one “Last Supper” is never enough
Author’s Note: I wrote this poem in 2012 when the doors of the school at which I taught closed for good. It was a Catholic School if you didn’t guess.
