As the five of them join hands around the small table,
The table feels a little larger than in years’ past.
They slowly chew on honey-glazed ham and laugh at
The little mistakes in each other’s lives,
But each of them steal glances at the dark green folding chair
against the wall.
They see the cold metal frame covered with small indents,
They see the seat cushion threadbare from use,
But they do not retreat into their hearts lined with
grief.
They remember the fruit juice and bread of the morning,
The mutilated corpse brought down from Golgotha,
The words of both god and man rising past the clouds above.
Now they can enjoy their transitory dinner.
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