Harvest
       

You have untied the tomato plants,
pulled their trivial roots from the ground,

piled the posts holding them,
against the neighbor's fence.

Your gardening shoes conform
to the shape of your feet,

the heels are worn. October—
the moon looms larger

lengthens the shape of the house—
& if I do not disclose his confidences,

I am next to you, not helping really,
I do not know how,

but I will sleep next to you,
nuzzling my fingers

while the neighbor's son steals
into our garden, ravishing it,

littering the yard
kicking up

whatever orphaned history's left.

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Copyright © 2012 Peter Covino All rights reserved
from The Right Place to Jump
New Issues Poetry & Prose
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission