The Last Supper
We arrived after dark in a group twice the size of the Apostles,
Not more due to controls, like an airlock to dehumidify us,
Precautions for the painting, its supper table more like a stage
With figures stopped at the words being said in that district,
Challenges to the oldsters and guides used to owning the show,
Not thrilled with an interloper, holier-than-thou, said to have
Powers of a comic-book hero, a carpenter’s kid from Nazareth
Sitting in the center with companions leaning in and away,
Triggered by what he has said, the forecast of betrayal;
One will front-stab, and the men, middle-aged or younger,
Followers of this new form of man who told loaded stories—
These guys had no idea about was coming.
What was I doing in front of Leonardo’s masterpiece?
Just outside, people walk their dogs, ride bicycles,
Chat in pairs. There’s no sign with an arrow aiming at
An icon of Western Civilization, no line-up of armed cops,
No landscaped entrance. Inside the simple meeting hall—
With a Crucifixion scene on one wall, not by famous Leo the engineer,
Who messed up the paint mix on his late-delivered tableau
And caused endless restoration—inside we looked and looked
And took phone-photos before exiting to the sidewalk, weaving
Between residents with loved pets and bags of supper food.
— Paul Marion, 2021