Avocados
“I ate one of the avocados
you left on my table last night.”
Leave one for me!
one was for you,
and the other for me.
“Dear heart,”
he said,
“would I eat your avocado?”
I don’t know.
They were so ripe, so perfect, so carefully chosen,
the flesh inside so pale and soft, such a creamy green.
And after all,
you call yourself a poet,
and William Carlos Williams ate
every last one
of the plums.
A Tree by the Stream 