Working Produce
Neil Gabriel Kozlowicz
An unfortunate blunder, I did not wax the proper skins and now
I am breathing fine mist from the fruit sprayer.
There are 49 shadows on this broccoli tree and eight eyes
look at my right hand as it moves and clutches
nothing in particular, an orange. I stare back at the buttons
on her slacks, they keep the heavens at bay.
Two men outside dig into the ground with their hands to unearth
a giant stone. Their fingers slide and the tips wear down
on the edges. This spinning and struggling comes to nothing.
The rock will not budge. And the oranges are raw. Please, go
home, all of you! The earth has had its fill of games and magic
and carnivals. Go home to your gravestones and grinders. The
auction is over. The hounds are loose on the grounds and the
wind leaves us in a state of caution, about the sand,
in its castles, and in our stomachs, next to the rind.