Chunks.

Sometimes I wish I could cleave off  

a chunk of my life and give it to you—  

like when the neighbor’s grandson  

came over for Easter  

with his new black lab puppy,  

a wiggly thing named Chunk.  

I’d gift you cookie dough,  

thick with melting chocolate chunks,  

sweet tea sweating in mason jars  

under the same sun that brewed it.  

And then, reality settles—  

like soil in the garden  

days after I’ve tilled it.  

These beautiful chunks  

are beautiful to me  

because I wanted them,  

envisioned them,  

made them with my hands.  

To you, they’d be like  

wearing someone else’s socks—  

or panties—  

awkward, off,  

something to walk funny in all day.  

And maybe that’s the strange  

and wonderful realization:  

I’m in love  

with the chunks of my day.