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More poems by Bob HicokBob Hicok | Print this page.Print | View and Write CommentsComments | Books by Bob HicokBooks by Bob Hicok

By Their Works

Bob Hicok

Who cleaned up the Last Supper?
These would be my people.
Maybe hung over, wanting
desperately a better job,
standing with rags 
in hand as the window 
beckons with hills 
of yellow grass. In Da Vinci, 
the blue robed apostle 
gesturing at Christ
is saying, give Him the check.
What a mess they've made
of their faith. My God 
would put a busboy 
on earth to roam 
among the waiters 
and remind them to share 
their tips. The woman 
who finished one 
half eaten olive 
and scooped the rest 
into her pockets,  
walked her tiny pride home 
to children who looked 
at her smile and saw 
the salvation of a meal. 
All that week 
at work she ignored 
customers who talked 
of Rome and silk 
and crucifixions,
though she couldn't stop 
thinking of this man
who said thank you
each time she filled 
His glass.

Anonymous submission.

Added: 24 Feb 2003 | Last Read: 17 Jan 2019 4:11 AM | Viewed: 5612 times

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URL: http://plagiarist.com/poetry/7988/ | Viewed on 17 January 2019.
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