What I Mean When I Say I'm Tired

Done. Cooked, like Christmas turkey.
Ready to be carved, plated, served with
gravy. There's a good deal of life left 
in me, in other words: 

   sliced leftovers for cold sandwiches, 
   chunks fit for a hearty noodle stew, 
   and bones – all my many bones – 
   still brimming with marrow and 
   capable of yielding up gelatinous
   surprises when cooled after simmering 
   in the stock pot for hours in the company
   of a halved onion, two celery stalks,
   and a few whole carrots.

In short, I have quite a bit left to give – 
many bits, in fact, juicy and nutritious.
But some judicious someone else will 
have to draw them out, preserve and
apportion them for the needy, 'cause 
I'm done.