There is one slice of pizza left inside the box,
and me and my conscience are engaged in paradox,
I already ate three and I’m full by any measure,
but the last slice sitting there is its own specific pleasure,
it’s getting cold and it will go to waste, I reason,
and wasting food is wrong in any climate or in season,
these are the negotiations that I hold with myself at night,
elaborate templates for doing what I was going to do right.
The last slice is a different animal than the rest,
it carries all the pizza’s final thesis and request,
eat me or acknowledge that the eating has a limit,
and acknowledging a limit means there’s something real in it,
I’m not ready to acknowledge limits at this point,
I’m still writing chapters in the overconsumption page,
I reach across the coffee table with a steady hand,
and execute the only plan that I had planned.
Last slice standing, don’t let it go to waste,
last slice standing is the final thing I taste,
the box is almost empty and the evening’s almost done,
but the last slice standing still says this night’s not run,
last slice standing, it was always going in,
I knew it from the moment that I opened the tin,
the last slice standing is the punctuation mark,
the last slice standing shines the brightest in the dark.
The thing about the last slice is the principle it holds,
the idea that consumption has a story that it tells,
the last bite of everything is its own specific act,
the finishing is the statement of the appetite in fact,
I’m a finisher by nature and a starter by design,
I begin with the intention and I follow the whole line,
from the first slice to the last slice is a single coherent arc,
the narrative of hunger from the light into the dark.
My friend would leave the last slice there, he always does,
he says he doesn’t want it, that the fullness is because,
the last slice represents a boundary he respects,
I find this interesting and somewhat circumspect,
what is a boundary but a limit you accepted,
and what is a limit but a thing to be rejected,
I say this and he says that’s why you always clean the box,
and I say yes it is, and that concludes our little talks.
The box is flat and empty and the night is late,
I’ve satisfied the hunger and the principle of fate,
that food is there to eat and eating is the whole point,
I fold the box and aim it at the recycling joint,
it lands inside, I’m satisfied on every single count,
the pizza and the evening settle into their account,
I’ll order the same thing next week without revision,
last slice standing is a consistent decision.