As I peck at my last supper,
impatient eyes already drag away the empty seats.
Behind my back I hear a vacuum removing any trace.

Determined to finish the job, I tear
at the tough flesh on my banquet plate,
pretend I am eating alive my young replacement,
whose boxes of pictures, paper clips, and diplomas
await orders outside my empty office door.

I slowly break bread into pieces of my life,
sip a wine from a bad year,
sip another that hasn't aged enough.
Like a death-row inmate, I try to make my warden wait,
my boss waiting to reward me with vibrating easy chair
and gold watch that will not keep time where I want it.

Slaps on the back sting harder and harder,
like a judge's emphatic gavel.

By midnight I've had my fill, say goodnight.
Their keys sounding like jingle bells,
they escort me to the end of the hall.
Behind my back the switch is pulled.