Auto-Accept

Tuesday afternoon in May,

two-forty in the day,

twelve lines of nothing much,

a map, a filter,

done. A helper for a helper that I wrote between two calls,

and I pushed it and I closed the tab and went and

got a coffee.

Now I write the ticket up and something writes it back,

and it's better than I'd do it

and it's faster than I'd been.

And I read it and approve it and I move on to

the next.

Auto-accept.

Auto-accept.

And somewhere in that first month

I stopped writing anything.

And there's a last time for everything.

The last time you climb a tree.

The last time your father lifts you up

and sets you on your feet.

You don't know it when it happens.

Nobody rings a bell.

It just stops.

And the day goes on.

I went and found the commit

on a slow night in the fall.

Two-forty in the afternoon,

the fifteenth, two years back.

And the message that I left on it,

the last thing that I said,

was two words and no capitals.

It just said:

small cleanup.

And there's a last time for everything.

The last time you climb a tree.

The last time your father lifts you up

and sets you on your feet.

You don't know it when it happens.

Nobody rings a

bell. It just stops.

And the day goes on.

If I'd have known that Tuesday,

I'd have taken all afternoon.

I'd have made the whole thing beautiful.

I'd have chosen better names.

I'd have written something in there

for whoever came behind me.

But you don't get told.

You never get told.

You just do it one more time

and then you don't.

And there's a last time for everything.

The last time you climb a tree.

The last time your father lifts you up

and sets you on your feet.

You don't know it when it happens.

Nobody rings a bell.

It just stops.

And the day goes on.

Small cleanup.

That's what I called it.

Small cleanup.