“The premise of the Takers is: the world belongs to man. The premise of the Leavers is: man belongs to the world.”
– Ishmael by Daniel Quinn
I’d wait around all day,
taking.
Bathing in the wine-bright light
that poured from that
stained glass pane,
set just above
our fireplace.
Or I’d stomp around
in the garden, sporting
knee-high wellingtons, watching
pollen-drunk bees stumble
into soft tulips.
I’d take and wait patiently
for the evening-
when I’d help feed
the fluttering birds
and swirling koi.
Birds that perched
upon our porch
and koi that lurked
orange as poached eggs
in our rippling pond.
I adored the smell
of birdseed-
a harvest of sunflowers,
corn, millet.
And even grew fond
of fish feed-
the scent sharp,
lingering, acidic.
That small task
felt fulfilling,
giving something back
to the place I’d sat
and passed my fresh time-
fleeting.
When will I find
a greater task
to give back?
As I grow,
I take more
in my waiting.
And I’m
so sick
of taking,
taking,
taking.
pm poetry 