The peaches are a lie the summer tells
and I believe it, dollar after dollar.
The basil man has opinions about wells.
The bread is gone by ten. You have to holler.
I do not need three kinds of honey. Still,
I stand and taste them all with great respect,
and buy the middle one against my will
from someone who remembers my defect
of always losing change. The tomatoes know
their worth and will not argue. Neither will I.
The morning has a rhythm and a flow
and I am in it, and the reason why
is nothing more than this: a bag, a street,
and food that somebody I know will eat.
This a fake test poem created by First Verse - it will be deleted at launch
