It’s better to tell myself
I have only a minute.
If I had a century
I would take a minute of life
and waste it with that much time.
I would live like a rich man
complaining of his poverty.
The high price of bread
spread with caviar.
It points to the relativity of
our imperfect clocks.
The system of our values
which are less precise than mathematics.
So to overcome this handicap
I plan a game.
Tell myself that the last time
I see a person, may be the last time.
So I indulge my lush goodbyes.
My fervent greetings.
Kisses for everyone.
Truly meant.
Spliced with tears and laughter,
and the knowledge of our mortality.
Of luck’s cruelty.
Our fragile existences
treated so profligately.
If I have only a minute,
only the duration of a kiss,
only the time it takes to say a name,
I’ll take as much as love can give.
I’ll grieve as much as grief deserves.
And if I rise from the dead,
I’ll still carry that law with me,
to see things in their light
and true value,
worth every star in heaven,
and every minute of forever.