the hypothetical harvest
I was contemplating fruit as I watered tonight
the fall air, the fall grass
biting cool on my naked feet
I have been tending two still-new vines
coaching them along the links of the fence
teasing the tendrils to curl into iron grip
both are in their third season
and still fruitless
will I eat my fruit?
will I trim my vines?
the canadice will bear first, I hope
but the thompson is far too spindly
far too stunted
There will be no fruit from that'n
I should yank it and plant another in it's stead
and while we're back on fruit
I wonder who will be picking from my two vines
come fifty years, when I am old and close to the grave myself
will you eat my fruit?
will you trim my vines?
Time has a way of wearing things out, grinding them down
will these rundown apartments still be here
still neglected, and all the more dilapidated?
without a doubt, the methheads will burn the high rises down again
perhaps the next time will be for good
jealous fire taking them entire to the foundations~
or will my dystopian thoughts never bear seed?
True to God, I hope they never sprout, my thoughts.
If it were up to me, the lamb and the lion would lay down tonight
not the empty bedfellows of man and his constructs
who will eat my fruit?
who will trim my vines?
will this place even matter in fifty years?
will the dirt be as worn out as the walls, the roofs, the windows
will the children still play in the streets?
I wish they all learned gardening in school
to link them to the soil.
when I die, don't bury me in a velveteen crate
hiding my preserved remains, an apology in a box,
lie me down in the heart of the fat black soil
where William Sycamore can find me.
please trim my vines
please eat my fruit
and think of the one you'll never know
this antecedent gardner