The Final Plies
The cardboard cylinder begins
to peek,
The prognosis is grim, the
outlook is bleak.
Only three sheets left on this
spinning white wheel,
And I'm starting to think about
how I should feel.
The plush, quilted days of my
youth have all passed,
When I unrolled with abandon
and lived life as fast.
Now the perforations are
marking the clock,
As I desperately downsize my
remaining stock.
Will I go out on glory, a two-ply
embrace?
Or be wiped from existence
with no saving grace?
The roll spins much faster the
closer it gets
To the end of the tube and a pile
of regrets.
I am down to the glue on the
very last square,
Just a ghost of a tissue, a
whisper of air.
So remember me kindly,
unspoiled and undone,
It was a beautiful, two-ply,
magnificent run.
One- Liner
Like the last square of paper
on a spinning brown roll,
we're all just clinging to the
cardboard at the end of the
bowl.
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