“Maybe they’re tomatoes?”- January, 2016
What am I gonna write to you?
What do I want you to know, that I’ll dream up and scrawl down on the back of this photo?
I cracked open tabloid I found on the train
Just started leafing and turning, going through the pages—
running, from cover to cover, running away—
three, four, five at a time, fluttering under
my thumb, not really reading,
or seeing, or thinking at all,
just letting them run under my thumbs…
and then they stuck.
Hung up on this page that didn’t belong.
On this picture got left—I think it’s of grapes
Hanging out in the sun on I guess that’s a vine?
The light glowing through the skin and showing their veins
Green as the lake where everything got weird…
It’s a good thing you weren’t there that day.
Though maybe I’d know what to write if you’d been there
maybe then I’d know something to say.
Something that’s not something about these maybe-grapes.
It’s not them that matters anyway.
They’re just green and in focus and on a wrinkled little bookmark that someone didn’t mean to leave—
It takes almost nothing to get me thinking of you these days.
Takes almost nothi—wait.
Maybe they’re tomatoes?