I am giving you the last slice of my time,
of all the minutes I have in the past, present,
the future. Take it
and go. You must savour its taste.
Quickly, before it grows cold
or unwanted. You must enjoy it,
or why did I bake it?
You were fighting with a lot of things for this little slice:
a lot of ruminating, a lot of busywork, sometimes
sleep, when it did come to visit. I was fighting
off a lot of competitors, to give this to you.
There was the award I thought I needed,
barely missed when it was gone.
There was the forest I tried to save
by printing paper posters.
There were the cute shelter puppies on the TV,
whom I liked, who were endless, whose stomachs were bottomless
and hungry. There was all the world of forgetful, gaping mouths to feed.
There were things that wanted.
Now imagine me fifty years from now all old and done and grey and
clearing crumbs. Imagine the mostly empty dish staring longingly at the sink,
waiting for a bath. Imagine.
Go, go, take this last slice, and dream.
Dream of a world where you and I
could sit at a table, and have the whole pie.