I have let the insects run rampant because they-
unlike all my lovers and lions- 
they like how my tomatoes taste. 

I put all my manuscripts in the dirt,
under two inches of leftovers and fat lips
to ferment in  dirty dishes and store bought soil,
because you told me the dirt my ground makes
doesn’t yield growth;
you said my  dirt dick shoots blanks,
nothing will come of my garden grown ground scum.

So we went to the store to cheer you up,
we bought a bag of dirt and I felt
such irony
tugging at the corners of my mouth
as I unwrapped the soil and threw it around on the earth:
Here, you’re looking a little peaked, 
Here, earthly collagen injected soil
for mother’s oak-inspired laugh lines.

We planted tomatoes and waited
under sun and sprinklers we sat and taunted
bugs and gardeners and my old bike tires,
long deflated.

I am still waiting for green-yellow to ripen red,
but now when I come till my
bought-quality dirt
into all the old pages of my
antiquated artsy hurt, 

it’s just me and the sprinklers and
still, my old bike’s tires.
Having spun slowly the other day
when I asked the tomatoes and the insects
about where you might be gardening today,
I know that unlike me,
They do not need normal or hot air to
look alive.

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