We know it, we don’t want to take our time with things.
Slow walkers are a baseball team, the NYC Pariahs
Take them to ball four every and you just sat through an inning on slow-mo.
I sit down at the dinner table,
Pouring cold bits of coconut rice on the paper plate.
Beau the dog’s ears perk up, and he skitters to the kitchen to claim his percentage.
“You expect too much,” I tell the dog, and take a mountainous forkful to look at.
His eyes glisten, and I realize my own contradiction.
I pluck a dozen grains of rice from the butter coconut mound on my fork,
And wrap them up into a ball with my fingers.
Up above my shoulder, I let it drop into Beau’s drizzling chops.
Misty, his counterpart, comes skittering as well and I can’t help
But to preach a newfound equivalence.
Another twelve-grain ball, drops to dog’s chops.
I look at this plate for the grains,
And chew slowly with every spacious mouthful.
Chewing your food is like extended eye contact,
The pulse of sensation feels wrong to sustain,
You desperately want to avert your eyes or take a gulp and move on to more,
That you forget how good it is to live that moment.
It’s not more,
I count twelve grains,
And measure them in a ball made for my mouth.
I want to understand such a simple gift
They way they do.
And then, I am grateful.
Beau still likes to take big gulps,
But I remember what a dozen chews feels like again.