poetry by j matthew waters

last supper

what will it be today
she asked
a line well-rehearsed

he said he wasn’t ready
and she walked away

it was freaky windy outside
and even though
no windows could be opened
the blue curtains did blow

he knew the menu
by heart
but he read it over and over again
as if for the last time

june two thousand nineteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

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