by Bob Schildgen
Inside, the rented room was dim—
was quiet conversation and
they ended dinner with a hymn.
I don’t remember what it said.
We catered all the wine and bread.
What? Yes, before they sang a hymn
I couldn’t hear exactly what he said.
I cleared the dishes, rolled the cloth.
Oh yes, they paid a week ahead.
I mopped the floor and swept the hall.
Yeah, that was all a long time past—
the bread, the wine, they say he blessed—
I hear that now his best friends fast—
What? Oh yes, they did arrest
the guy, and then they marched him from
a garden later on that night.
I know who chiseled out the tomb
where they laid him when he died.
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