The Baked Beans

Baked beans

Should I open them or not,

These last beans from the shelves

Plucked by the healthy hand of a life of labor,

Placed nonchalantly into a basket

And driven from town in the arthritic automatic car.

Here, the can sits, now lovingly placed as a monument.

The last one purchased by the man before the incident,

Should I leave it like all the other ornaments around the house?

A reminder of life’s maintenance, when things were normal,

Before the bacteria crept out from the hospital walls; and did its worse.

There, I have opened it.

But each cooked mouthful is a reminder of my singular meal.

This “Last Supper” of one, as I consume the remains of his days,

Tasty memories of the shopping he so enjoyed.

So holding a legacy, I AM nourished by food and love.

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