zen and fruit

[applgreenicecrm]

and really if happiness is
a farmers market peach
(cradled for miles along bus routes
tucked into cloth folds, a
private treasure,
so that the aroma of
anticipation becomes as vital
as breaking in through the skin
and tasting the thing),

then a good life
should will must have
an abundance of messes
too, right?
there should be dirty feet
and garden-soiled hands,
juice dibbled down laughing chins.

i feel like a sandwich with too much jam
and i hesitate to share these
excesses of sticky weird emotion;
but they're spilling all over the plate
where everyone can see that
i am not put together well at all.

i always want to be a precise sort of person
all balanced out and appropriate but interesting still,
with the perfect reaction to every scenario.
but i suppose we all have our overabundances
and particularities that rub
one another the wrong way,
and sometimes not.

maybe i think that writing can wick away
some of the more dramatic mess
like a giant, life-sized paper towel,
but maybe i also hope that it won't
because the truth is:
it's better than two slices of bread.

and in the meantime,
everything.