many worship a heavenly body, God, which is not even close to the dedication a sunflower has ever watched one grow from dawn to dusk in twisted adoration of the sun? that tall leading flower is life’s potential, it tells us who it is out loud it doesn’t hide what it will be sadly, too many live as those second and third projections along the stem, modestly budded, opening cautiously more moon flower than sunflower, they live in those darker shadows, building then tear

from an extra-long wait in a third-floor exam room of my podiatrist’s office I watch them being dropped off in trucks, cars, motorcycles, SUVs, and on foot, crossing the circled entrance to the ER and through the automated doors from my window, the mountains seem so close, the sky so blue, a few wilted clouds float by on this beautiful balmy morning but each of their worlds are cloud-covered and murky, seen through scowls aimed at dark blood or bodily misery I look do

mid-June through mid-August I am consumed by mangoes the everyday search for fruit that aren’t picked are found on the driveway in the gutter bottom of the pool under bushes on walls and the roof caught in tree forks hidden in the ivy or left on my doorstep then the bagging, boxing, delivering, explanations on the cutting and eating, then accolades with chants of Bring more, bring more ask me how many mangoes I’ve eaten this week. fewer than in my farmer dreams