I was thirsty and remembered I had forgotten
that you can eat grapes whenever you want.
For no reason at all, grapes. Another
grape, another grape. An hour of grapes.
A dinner of grapes, too full for dessert. Up
at three a.m. for grapes by fridgelight.
I knew about water, of course, but
consider: a grape. It’s already
gone before you’ve thought your way through the word.
Another grape. Another grape.
Out of grapes. Put on shoes
with no socks and walk in the dark
with the stem in hand all fishbone-pokey.
Pass houses with kitchens where grapes
are disrespected, left to raisin in ceramic
bowls on counters and tables. Spit.
Hold the stem up to the dark front window
of a closed Whole Foods. Yell at no one:
“Do you have this variety in stock?”
Lights come on up and down the street,
curtains part, windows open, someone
throws ice cubes and someone else
pours rainwater from a tray they keep
out on their sill. A few boos. I boo
back, because the mouth shape is the same
as when you’re about to bite clean through
an ideal grape. They do not like this.
Twirl the stem in the air, poll the street:
“Do any of you have this variety in stock?”
Imagine being woken by a question
like that. One day I will behave
normally and naturally, and I will forget
this whole mode of being. For now, another grape.
***
John Pinto lives in Philadelphia, where he works as a film lab technician.
***
image: Jade Hawk is a meat popsicle.
Rejection Letters 