Will it always be this way?
I see the hand thrown
pottery framed in a
vignette - full pitcher,
waiting goblet, and plate
holding artisan bread
with a perfect crust
curling away from its
maker's mark. All this
rests stylized to the side
of the stage on a white
starched linen table cloth
covering a rustic round
table.
Will it always be this way?
I'm pleased to imagine
these are the very utensils
and ingredients we will
use as sacraments for
communing
one with the other.
Will it always be this way?
The silver trays full of quivering
plastic cups filled
with the perfect amount
of Welch's grape juice passes
down my isle. I take one, feeling
tricked. I pick up a broken soda
cracker, unsalted to fake it better.
Will it always be this way?
I want to stand up and point
at the forgotten accoutrements of
sacred remembrance and symbols
of poetry staying untouched -
merely props used on stage.
I feel a fierce urge to rip the table
cloth out from under the mockery
and shout -- I want some of this.
