Hints in a meal of trouble, come
while bread, still warm, newly broken
abides, hidden securely between teeth
in mouths hungry for more.
Hunger assuaged, 24 clean feet and a single, haunted table.
Only crumbs remain,
mixed up and jumbled in pools of spilled wine.
A rumpled table top, tussled
with detritus of a meal, but laughing, flaunting its revelry
through unknowing smiles and the heavy eyelids of sleepy friends.
They restfully recline, sashes loosened,
bits of meat trapped in beards,
but not without gnawing whispers of
“what now?” “What next?” “When?” And in their shared memory
of goodness sense not the coming bad; the storm clouds of betrayal.
An ominous, stealthy breeze sneaks through the room,
slithering past befuddled hearts
and blows its dark breath from one
whose riskless love cannot match he whose riskily painted love,
soon full-flayed and dying, cannot be matched.