Hearts

 

Yours is a pleasant walk through

Crowded downtown streets,

Admiring the traffic and weaving

Effortlessly through throngs of drizzleslicked coats.

 

Mine is a frantic sprint from corner to corner,

Hurrying to a destination I’ve not yet been told, eyes

Blinded by the downpour, jostling, bumping,

Irritating all the downturned faces and stern brows.

 

Yours is a well-cultivated tomato plant.

You never thirst for water. Your vines are green.

Your fruits are round, red and ripe. You are so

Bountiful, you do not mind the occasional caterpillar.

 

Mine is a weed.

I struggle for sunlight and soil, crinkly and parched.

I want to grow strong and supple like you -

Not be uprooted and banished from the garden again.

 

Yours is a gentle canal, shaped by those

Who’ve touched you, leading you from town to town,

Down, down, down to the sea -

Fearless of storms and turbulent undercurrents.

 

And mine - mine is the dirty,

Filthy, long-neglected bathtub,

Filled with the murky, worried water

In which I drowned you.