Monday, October 1, 2012

His Last Supper



For 48 hours, strangers paraded up cold, 
concrete steps, investigating a lifetime 
of collectibles, fishing lures, marina sketches, chopped 
bits of animal pelts he had placed inside boxes 

like trophies. Dusty books about ancient aliens, 
Yukon prostitutes, and PCs for Dummies 
bordered the edges of each room, showing off 
those subjects that had consumed his mind 

in private. The procession continued after the burial,
each visitor anxious to get their hands on a piece 
of his life’s work, odd figurines, food choppers, Hummels 
with missing body parts, and miscellaneous books 

on how to be a millionaire in secret. 
A blue-haired lady wearing a tight 
bun gaped in disgust. The man who’d fed her family 
40 years of fish dinners was a disgrace, his home gutted, 

his skeletons laid out on the table for all of the hungry 
bargain hunters to see.



--Linda G. Hatton

9 comments:

  1. Oh Linda, this is really good. Haunting in its detail and minutiae ... and ultimately sad.

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  2. Private lives of only publicly known people. Nice venture into the little known. You've got me asking all kinds of "what-ifs."

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  3. A beautifully written poem of shimmering insight. Well done.

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  4. I like this. It could easily be a short story because I want to know more. :)

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  5. Thank you so much for reading and for your thoughtful comments!

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  6. Ah, Linda. This is riveting in its detail and questioning in its mystery for the reader. Who was this man? What was his name? Who is the old lady? So many questions, so few informative answers for the trivia buff. In the end what's given is all the answers most would ever truly need.

    Excellent work.

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  7. What a nice comment. Thank you so much, Claudette! I appreciate your support.

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