A Big Glass Seed
I have never seen any one
hit a picnic table with
a cherry pit quite like you;
and from so high up too, shit,
you must have been four for
seven at some point. Except seriously,
I suspect you've practiced: crept
away on off-days alone in a kayak,
portaging to the tower to hone those
stone-hawking skills. Nonetheless, as again
you spit, I become more impressed, and sip a sip.
But now I think you need to
pick bigger more difficult pits.
Avocado comes to mind; atop
the tower I could nibble new guac
while you find, train and
tone fresh tongue muscles,
then choreograph the jaw
to propel this other more significant
stone down, tumbling into darkness
while we await the anticipated 'plunk'
which will signify our success.
You will thrust your victory-clenched
fingers toward the elusive Little Dipper;
I will smile but quickly sit forward
to hide my overflowing mouth with
the back of my hand as I finish
chewing the chips I assume
you brought to go with the guac;
and the wine bottle I brought will wash it
all down, but good you stop me from aiming it
toward that same table because, and I agree:
it's okay to step on seeds, not to spit shattered glass.