Avocado
The plan was to eat half an avocado
with an omelet, but I began by plucking
leaves off cilantro stems over the sink,
forgot I placed the avocado
to ripen in a used coffee bag from Mexico
instead of uncovered atop the refrigerator,
and that is why I also washed the baby-
bella mushrooms from a cardboard carton
stored near the red peppers in the crisper drawer.
What egg fantasy would not be complete
without heating extra virgin olive oil?
I asked the stove top, but she said nothing,
and so I chopped organic green onions
clipped on their ends
and even cubed a slice of ham
heated and flipped in the Teflon terrain
of my skillet, my spatula
frenzied in the induction-readied arena.
Sorry, avocado, I even forgot
your history when you were called alligator pear
or even worse by the Aztecs
lost in the scoop of a bigger forest.
Forgive my middle-aged eyes for overlooking
your precious model
of self-containment from your make-shift
habitat and for not realizing the maturity you’ve reached—
the bumpy exterior now slightly giving in
and your flesh underneath bright green
available on a board waiting
for the rapid, undeniable dive of the spoon.
On the Occasion of My Boring Death
after César Vallejo
I will die in Houston on an overcast afternoon
on a day I’ve already forgotten.
I will die in Houston and who really cares
maybe it’s a Monday.
I will wear a plain T-shirt, Levi’s jeans,
and Dockers’ shoes with navy socks.
A Folgers’ can will hold the ashes of my cremation
although Maxwell House will do
if the coffee grounds you removed are caffeinated.
At the reception, you will search for an extended metaphor
with deviled eggs
and re-birth that somehow I never really understood
since there won’t be enough paprika.
There is never enough paprika.
John Denver will play Take Me Home, Country Roads.
You will bring potato salad that won’t be German potato salad.
That recipe has always been screwed up.
Your memory of me saying I liked it before isn’t wrong,
I had just lied.
You will choose unscented flowers instead of my favorite,
stargazer lilies. They remind you of your father’s death.
Voices will begin to subside and leave early. Mosquitoes
will bite the children playing in the backyard.
And who can blame them?
Rain will begin to fall as friends climb into their hybrid cars,
drowsy. My witnesses will remain in the wake—
the record player, the guppies in the tank, the leftovers…