POETRY
A Birthday Wish
It really isn’t much to ask. And yet it is, for now.
All I ask on this, my birthday, is a bowl of ripe, red cherries.
Not for the fruit itself, delicious though it is,
But for the carefree time to spend on its procedural rite.
To pluck each one by stringy stem, imprison it
Behind the barrier of my teeth, squeeze and pull until it yields,
Then pierce the flesh, incise its orb, release its juice,
And roll and tease its succulence around my tongue.
Suck and scrape the bony pit, disgorge into the lesser bowl
Of stems and stones, slowly shift the equilibrium of time
From one to other, careless of the hours and minutes,
Aware of only moments, sowing seeds of memories
While harvesting those of days gone by.
Not this year, I fear.
Life pulls and presses,
Harries, hassles,
Intent on driving me into the sterile embrace
Of some store-bought smoothie,
An on-the-go placebo that gives no pleasure,
Taunts instead of tempts,
But leaves me time to file a tax return,
Draw up an invoice, proof a text.
And write a poem to the cherries
That lie untouched in the icebox.
Next time around the sun, perhaps.
