a life is a sequence like a meal.
the handfeel of silver,
the lighting and linen
is secondary, sure, but just as vital
to the composition
as the first forkful,
the sweet final bite,
the ghost of the meal
on the tongue,
in the homeward car.

anticipation is enrichment.
as wine must age,
we too must wait for wisdom.

To watch each dish arrive
in hurried unison,
each sip of wine
replenished with a tiny pour,
delights the sultan,
but is no richer a meal.

we must savor the moments between,
even if we eat it all too fast.