It'll happen like this:
My hand will tremble as I
Lift the the last piece of peach pie
From the pie tin with a spatula and then
Lower it to a plate. Then
The thick blue veins in my hand will bulge
As I grip the coffee pot's handle
And pour the black coffee into a white cup.
I'll drink it black.
Then I'll pause and listen
To the birds in the yard and
The quartz clock's gears on the mantle
As I slowly sip my coffee and savor my pie.
I'll not leave a crum or a drop.
A fly will wash its hands over and over again
Then pace the ceiling above the kitchen table.
My children will tap their fingers as they sit by their phones
In their large homes.
Death will look at his watch.
Death will look at his watch again.
Then they'll take it all:
My soul, my stuff, whatever's left in the pie tin.
But they'll have to wait until after
I've had my coffee and pie.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Liked this! (haha) Especially the line about the fly washing its hands. I enjoyed the clock-ticking-like pacing to it. I have a similar (?) poem you might enjoy - 'Just Desserts and Final Judgement'. I'd welcome any comments you'd care to leave. -chuck