The Asparagus God Poem by Jack Otterberg

time comes to you so rudely—
you wake up and find out you didn't wake up.
just here, in another world, the ethereal
glow of white light
and fulfilled trees. last night
I ate asparagus for the final time.
I thought I'd eat it again today— or
at least seven years later
in a fancy Italian steakhouse
that's filled with waiters
you've known from a past life.

I'd put the velvety napkin in the lap
of my black pants,
wipe away the juice on my face
from the filet mignon.
maybe even when I got home,
alone with my bubbly French Bulldog,
I'd say a prayer for the first time in
years.
God, don't make me alone.

then, to sleep, and wake up
refreshed, in a pool of light
in which i don't need to
remember my name anymore.