Someday I may learn my lemons,
resist the marigold’s musky dirge,
for I have this man who drags his feet
through piles of rotting banana peels,
residue of strict smoothies too thick
for punchlines. Too often he trudges back
into the dark forest with ocher pigment
smudged on his forehead and cheeks to
hunt for old stumps that he kicks over so that
yellowjackets swarm and tether. Yet, I have
seen his gentle palm cradling corn kernels
for backyard goldfinches and receive loving
texts that he types with his toes while curling, in his
kitchen home gym, a pair of sun-kissed dumbbells.
