Home > Poetry > Last Supper

Last Supper

A friend said to me,

you live to eat, I eat to live.

I’ve never felt more sorry for anyone.

Most days are just a matter of hanging on till the next tiny island of joy,

in the middle of a vast ocean of suffering.

The good never can outweigh the bad,

the scales will never balance,

and this is why I love food.

Unadulterated pleasure,

without complications,

and never more than mere hours away.

That’s how I get through a day,

thinking, always, in the back of my mind,

what will I make for dinner tonight?

Today is hot, miserably hot,

how about a refreshing gazpacho and some crusty bread?

There is more pure goodness in an honest bowl of soup,

than an assembly of saints.

There is more truth in the clean taste of fresh parsley,

and the subtle bite of good garlic,

sliced thin,

than there is in the law and the prophets,

and no one needs to live forever when one has eaten so well,

he is prepared to die.

Categories: Poetry
  1. July 27, 2010 at 2:21 am

    Mmmm, gazpacho…

    I like this. It surprised me. I thought you were going to go one way with it, and you went another (I think better) way.

    Great job! đŸ™‚

  2. July 27, 2010 at 2:22 am

    Since you’re so fond of tomatoes, maybe you should change that picture of animal flesh in the upper right hand corner of your blog to a picture of tomatoes. Just a thought.

  3. July 28, 2010 at 5:57 am

    There’s tomato in the sauce about to go on them ribs.

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