Wonderful Daydream

So. There is your life. Slapped down in front of you, on a silver platter (slightly dented as if it was used before) rather harsh it seems by a waiter who, according to his black and golden brimmed name tag, listens to the name Earl.

The backbone of your dish consists of a sturdy, almost cement like blob of mashed potatoes. Good mashed potatoes, have been selected carefully, washed and peeled, boiled for around 20 minutes, and then mashed with a bit of rich cream, and a lump of butter.
For vegetables, a careful selection of this seasons most delicate offerings. There is chives, spring union, sprouts, beetroot, peppers, cucumber, ginger, lettuce, baby carrots and to top it of.. broccoli.

As your eyes wonder over your plate, looking for the meat, the sound of the waiter’s squeeking shoes echoes through the restaurant. Well. Maybe restaurant is a big word. Diner is probably more close to it. Greasy tabletops, plastic seats bolted to the ground, a toilet with an odor so foul that dogs begin to shiver with delight. It has been know to instantly clear out the nostrils of a men with permanently clogged sinuses.

Anyway. Back to your life. The meat looks awesome. Its a perfectly encrusted piece of roast beef, encrusted because of the bacon wrapped around it. It smells delicious, it’s not to big, or to small, it’s in perfect size. It gently wafts its smell over the table, seducing even that lonely fly to sit down for a while, and savor the moment.

Next to your plate, there is a bowl of gravy. Not just any gravy. It’s ‘the’ gravy. The jackpot amongst gravies. Other gravies fear it. Only a few of father gravy’s illegitimate children have turned out alright. But this, is the father itself. It has a nice, dark color. It’s a rich, thick gravy, and it contains, besides the secret ingredient (not to be named here because, after all, it’s a secret) some cooking juice of the potatoes, some cooking juice of the vegetables, and of course the remnants from the roast beef tray.

There you have it. The tray, the meal, the gravy. The diner, the toilet, the fly and the waiter. All together, they represent your life. All the ingredients. Now, it wouldn’t be very much of a parable to explain what is what. All I can say, is that it’s a damn shame the waiter forgot to bring me the wine that was suppose to accompany this excellent food.

What’s left of me?
shreds of yesterday
mingled with a dash of tomorrow.

Now is empty, now is dead
it’s the silence that I dread.

Fallen leaves, earthy smells
Like a tree in the fall
I feel more naked, with every
passing minute.

What’s left of me is gaping
a hole big enough for a backdraft
to start gnarling with withered teeth
at those who don’t deserve it.