When I am an Old Innkeeper
I shall wear yoga pants and fuzzy slippers
and forget where bras and hair products are stored.
I shall spend my worldly riches on chocolate and good wine
and tequila aged forever in oak.
I shall spend my afternoons playing silly games
and watching old TV series
and reading books one after another.
People will tire of ‘when I was in Italy’ and stories of
unruly guests and breakfast kitchen disasters.
But I won’t care. I’ll tell it anyway.
I will sleep through the morning and have breakfast mid-afternoon
and use paper towels as napkins.
I will lick the spoon and put it back in the sauce because
it will all be for me, anyway.
I will drink from the orange juice bottle in the middle of the night, in front of the refrigerator, in my bare feet and pajamas, with only the one small bulb to light my way.
I will go all week without cooking one egg.
I will go out for breakfast on Sundays, and order ovo-vegetarian-lactose-intolerant-gluten-free-low-carb high-protein-paleo-south-beach-vegan-macrobiotic omelets. With real cream for my coffee. And bacon. On the side.
For now, I will rise before the sun and indulge my guests and perform in the kitchen and savor each conversation and encounter.
But I am already practicing… for when I grow old.
