Tonight is the last supper, Brother. We will have to eat and go out In different directions, into different storms.

You will be lost to me, I know this Even as we wave our handkerchiefs from Our respective boats swaying at the quay, shouting

“Soon, very soon we shall meet and feast At one of the ports, perhaps one full of exotic smells.” Cairo was it? Or Dover with its rainy squalls?

Others will enter and leave these stations. Carousels will revolve and record their numbers. We will be travelers who always miss

Their trains or be those on smoky station platforms Who wait for someone who never comes. At the level crossings I will watch for you

And you be sure to watch out for me. This is the pretense We will have to learn to keep, the first trick We will have to perfect as we deal and receive our cards.

Now here is the bread, not my body, Now here is the wine, not my blood. Now eat, drink and laugh if you can. Tomorrow I shall be taught how to grieve.

for Kiran