Last Supper in the Yellow Kitchen
One had to wonder what Jesus was doing
there in a kitchen so tight white walls
had turned to yellow from smoke and heat
and grease, but there he was, clueless
disciples beside him above the metal
table, red-rimmed, speckled, surrounded
by five wooden chairs with woven seats
and barely enough room to crawl in
between wall and table. He sat
every hour of every day,
palms and eyes upturned (caught
mid roll perhaps) above
bowls of grits and biscuit toast
and four boys with dirty faces,
overlooking a woman who never
sat at the table to eat, and men
who talked of nothing but farming and fishing.
Even years later, returning
long after the last time
anyone stayed for supper, to claim
what little remained, vintage bowl,
hen and rooster salt and pepper
shakers, I see him there, yellowing, otherwise
unchanged, silently waiting to ascend.
[Photo: Scott Owens at one of his favorite haunts, Taste Full Beans Coffeehouse, in Hickory, NC.]
Scott is great. Love the photo AND the poem!
I've seen it all before. But not in words like this.
Great tactile and emotional sens of the place, Scott. Really there!
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