The Book of Weston

I chop myself into pieces.

Every day: chop, chop.

The pieces I like, I keep,

assemble and freeze for later.

I think I'm clever arranging in words

pieces of me, safe in time.

I can make them last.

Chew, chew, I force myself

to chew the pieces.

They were part of me;

they must hold meaning.

But they don't

keep; they rot. I reheat

my rancid collection,

refrying with willpower.

Simmer, simmer, time does its trick.

Time eats my leftovers.

And the taste, the stench,

it grows. I cannot stand it.

I throw me away.

Not a rejection because

the thing that does the throwing

remains.

But where am I now:

holding the fork

or heading for the dump?