Word Weary

There is an Indian tribe whose members

ration their words and choose them carefully

because they believe we are appointed a

certain number of words to speak during our life

and then we die.

 

I, on the other hand, seem to treat 

letters and words

like coins and currency, filling 

some bottomless account with

deposits that are not even kept 

and cannot be spent.

 

What if I'm struck down in mid-sentence, poised

with poetry or prose, describing a mountain stream

or declaring love from my death bed that

I thought was a chair in a coffee shop?

 

 

 

--rLp--