the two of us
in fields of green. I haven't
seen him in years, since
that day we paraded around

the chairs. The cherry
red tomato, donning an
embroidered cap, in colors
every day, navy blue, tan or grey

that hides his bald-pate. He throws
his salted lines a title, he underlines
peppered in black. And I sit
back and read how he plants his

seeds in a wooden bowl of
dreams. I'm cut up like an onion,
in rings. He's a cool cucumber dancing
in springs of parsley, dressing it down.