He shattered my sated haze
with his smile, his slick bag
black, voluptuous with soil.
It perched on his pedestal
of young brown palm
and sprouted hearty twigs,
with infant leaves splayed
against charity’s the glossy
white flier.
I will plant this gift, his eyes said.
It will grow beside our home
make shade. The fruit will come
heavy, blushing, sweet.
I will take many to market
where father sells fish. Then
we will have more money.
