If I could tell you when the last moment came,
I surely would, but it was exquisitely hidden
camouflaged amid the good humor and appetite
lost in an uproar of experience
and buried beneath laughter and tears,
irony and terse judgement.
All the last moments hide away
they come in heavy fog
and leave without a whisper
they are resolute and focused to be forgotten
thrown away absent mindedly
seen but not seen.
I will experience the last moment
when all is prepared
and I am waiting with wide eye
and arched brow
forever perched and expectant.
I will catch it with my butterfly net
and pin its carcass onto a white piece of paper
I will study it and categorize it.
And then I will know the last moment
I will cherish it and hold it
I will frame it and put it on my wall
it will be a conversation piece
and will catch the eye of all that enter.
I will give the last moment
as a gift to the greater good
and there will be no more mystery
we will rejoice and celebrate
and as I pass on the last moment
I will breathe full
and exhale a relieved breath.
What the fuck was THAT all about, he said.
Well you know, trying to catch a moment.
He sighed like he always does when I get this way
and said this whole fucking poem as you call it
just sounds like overblown noisy zen.
Without the zen.
I replied, well yes, I think that’s the point.
He said to me take up knitting or something.