Last Supper

— Casey FitzSimons

about the puff of air as I
shake open my napkin

something in the texture of the peas

in the way your fingers curl
under the rise in the handle of your spoon
before you lift it, you leaning gently forward
waiting for

something you want to say
to fall from mind to mouth. A truck going by
outside puts on its brakes. I feel
its lurch in the street
through the seat of my chair.

One thought on “Last Supper

  1. Casey, You have such gift for setting the scene in which an anticipation of something dreadful doesn’t quite come about but the title and the words says it all. A wonderful poem

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