They stand arms at their sides in the large room
where a last supper happens. Don’t intrude
upon the conversation. Someone’s nude
or someone weaves a battle on a loom

that she unpicks next day. Not their concern.
They bring in wine, or lobster on a plate.
Mostly they stand around the room and wait
until the hero and his friends adjourn

elsewhere. They can at last go home to bed.
Take leftovers to eat, or give the cat.
Gods, lovers, heroines and clowns have sat
around their table. But inside their head

Diners are diners. Their relationship
is bringing food and getting a large tip


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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