One Step Closer

My stepsister insisted, "Incipience 

should guide our every move." She declared,

"In half an hour, you'll taste nutmeg, cloves,

cinnamon, and ginger, a plump pumpkin pie

beyond olfactory to gustatory 

sense. Now declare you're still depressed." For what

will always upstage fleeting present tense.

"I know, I've given birth to the idea 

of you. And I'm still not sure that you exist."

Nor did she believe she was obliged 

to listen, "We're on the threshold," she said,

"of the penultimate election. Vote,"

she spat, for God's sake, vote without your 

heart."