The Last Supper
The Last Supper
The staff were run off their feet.
Simple as the meal was to be,
It was pure chaos in the kitchen.
There were bones in the fish stew.
The wine still needed decanting.
The waiters were smoking out back
When the guests started filtering in,
Sitting on one side of the long table.
The famous one sat in the dead center,
A faraway look on his face.
The others studied the laminated menu,
Spun their empty glasses absentmindedly,
Scrolled through Yelp reviews.
The wine was poured. Rough stuff,
Not the best, but it would have to do.
The bread was good, the cloth
That covered it warm to the touch.
A silence fell over the table.
Some sort of toast was about to be made.
The waiters stood in the wings.
The youngest, a real jokester
Who drove the waitresses mad,
Stifled a cough as he watched him
Take a piece of bread,
Raise a glass of wine…