Howie Faerstein |
At the Locust
Street Dump
Someone from
town
grows African
Violets
from a mother
leaf,
pots up the seedlings
when they measure
a kinglet’s heart,
brings them
to the transfer station
and places
them
on the
freebie stand
by the
compactor.
I’ve taken a
half dozen over the years,
the two in my
kitchen bloom
everlasting,
purple,
bruised-white, candescent.
Others I’ve
given to neighbors,
my love.
Someone from
town
raises
African Violets
for
strangers,
coaxes them
from a mother leaf,
puts up
plantlets at three months.
But I fear
the person took sick,
maybe died.
All that’s on
the table this summer:
broken
toasters, battered toys.
Love, love this poem!
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