Tasting one of the cherries I’ve brought
from the market this morning,
grandma squints and says,
I thought they didn’t make summers like that
anymore.
Remember our old cherry tree?
Remember the old willow
they had to cut down – it was old and dry,
and a hazard during lightning season.
Remember how your friend cried her eyes out –
what was her name? She cried for the old willow.
Yeah, I had forgotten about that. I think
she works in finance now.
The pits pile up –
a small mountain range
for the ants.
By dusk my mouth is red
and the kitchen looks like
a minor crime scene
like they hired Tarantino to do the credits
of this sequel
lined up in the jars.
We’re one lid short.
Outside,
the air above the roof
crackles with static.