wild tomatoes

There has to be a secret to this. 
One weird trick that doctors hate.
A memory palace, a mindfulness practice, a murder mystery podcast. 
Some way out that isn’t through. 
When you find it, let me know.

A secret is a heavy load.
Our soft bodies,
naked to every sting and sorrow,
were not meant to carry this much alone.

While we’re here sharing things, you should know:
I am afraid that the people I love
don’t know that I love them,
that they’ll get tired of helping me
and leave me behind.

Don’t think for a second that you’re special.
You are indistinguishable from the atmosphere.
You are welcome.
There’s beans and rice on the stove,
fix you a plate and sit down.
It’ll be like pulling out thorns you didn’t know were there.

I’ll be the first to admit that the horrors are significant.
There are potholes to fill,
police cars to flip,
lies to retruth,
and maybe a few rotten teeth to pull.

Despite all that,
despite the worry that rocks me to sleep every night,
I knew we were gonna be okay
when I asked my neighbor if he’d seen
the wild tomatoes
growing in the vacant lot on the corner.