Chewing

I think the moments
when I realize most clearly
what it means
to be sitting here, breathing, blood
coursing through the veins,
some sense of purpose to each
passing moment, despite the lack
of any real evidence of purpose,
are the moments when I'm alone chewing.
There's just nothing
quite like counting each bite,
being conscious of each ounce of energy spent
on each press down with the jaw, each mastication,
each swallow to remind you of all the clocks ticking
all over the world,
clocks you'll never see but who are always
haunting you in the shadows,
in the cracks and crevices at the edges of your life
that you've always ignored.
The moments when I'm chewing
in silence, alone at some table,
will always be the moments that last the longest,
heavy as that truth is to bear.
Not the sweet moments I remember
of love and innocence and childhood.
Not the occasions when I've been admired
by people I respect.
Not the evenings when I've felt quite certain
that I wasn't, in fact, just sitting here chewing
in silence and without purpose. No.
Every second takes an hour when it's all about
me and chewing. Mostly I wish my life
wouldn't disappear so fast, long for some way to stop
the days and nights and love affairs in their tracks,
to hold onto them forever.
Except in the absence of love affairs.
Except in the absence of any other mouth chewing,
of any other veins nearby with blood coursing through.
It's not funny; it's only pitiful:
I wish the moments would go quickly when they inch along;
I wish the moments would go slowly when I wake up
and realize I can't even remember the last time I was a kid.

(2006)