The Last Breakfast
by Anne Sheldon
The black spine of the dory
barely wavers against the red east.
He can count his seven friends
Nathanaels skinny elbows at an angle
with the lifted oars;
Peter poised to dive into the net;
and John pointing at the sky as if
to rhapsodize the bloody dawn.
The pebbles hurt his feet.
Hell miss his feet
and miss their hurting, too,
but he smiles, imagining
the faces of his friends.
No more campfires after this,
or loaves and fishes,
but this last is bread from heaven,
trout form the stream
that ripples by the throne.
And why not coffee from the future?
The galvanized pot is streaked with galaxies.
The water boils.
The fish skin crackles.
It gives him so much pleasure
to make their breakfast
that they blur in his eyes as they labor.
Surely they will smell the fish and turn.
The hungry fragrance travels.
Surely they will smell the coffee
and turn. How far hes come
to make their coffee.
Surely, surely, he wont need to work
another wonder. Surely
they will turn.
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