I do not want to be there all at once.

I do not want to be there all at once.
I would rather slowly assemble,
piece by piece
the way I lumber out of bed in the morning
and my fingers unfurl over a cup of coffee.
The languid opening of the newspaper
filling the day with words of foreign lands,
to put on socks, and only then shoes
tied up neatly with old laces.

I do not want to be there all at once.
No one needs my undivided attention at 7 in the morning
but maybe 9 or 10

I do not want to be there all at once.
Because being there all at once
means I've picked up all of those bits
I've left strewn behind
under trees, scribbled in the margins,
tucked in friends
and being there all at once
means someone could pick me up
and blow me away like the dandelion on the wind