Being sensible doesn’t suit me

“What do you bring to the table?”

I bring myself.
Rattling cans attached to strings will follow behind me,
They clang, bang,
And some sang the blues of my insecurities.

“What can you give to the world?”
I give myself.
Shoes in hand,
I stare out into the busy intersection with cars that flash by
And think here time has raced me to the edge.

“What do you bring to the table?”
My pocket change.
Collect calls of entire minutes where I said nothing at all.
I bring the crackled plates and put them  on the decorated dining table.

“What can you give to the world?”
Doubts that run track relays,
And high jump over aspirations.
Hopes that fill entire auditoriums
And sports stands,
Where I am silently cheering how to get better.
I hug the water cups as I run to the others –
Letting the water slosh out
Onto the artificial grass.

I left the rectangular boxes blank and looked out of the window.
Whoever I would be
And whatever I would bring,
Will not fit the confinement of being everything all at once to the world or to someone

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