on the vine
plump and ripe
between the twine
hands came
and plucked me
tore my skin
and crushed me
till I broke
and bled
a river of red
bottled up
and labeled
made to sell
as old Clark Gable

I sat heavy
in his stomach
as indigestion
burning holes
with my questions
he couldn’t walk
so, he rolled
as a joint
and smoked me cold

I sat heavy
as dust on the furniture
of an abandoned house
you can draw letters
on my table
with a finger
write a note
it'll linger
for a fortnight
then disappear
out of sight

I sat heavy
as a ‘56 Chevy
painted blue
with a hardtop
and high mileage
but none volunteered
to be my pilot