the garden verdent green
held a trio of stone Buddhas
vacationary souveniers kept on
the basis of memories of the
time when our love bore sweet fruit
before anger and rage took the stand
from when we were we
and we chose to eat
angry words before the
days of the plastic facile smile
the fruitless discussion and
inevitble dummy spit
then it all came out
and thus, the begining of the end of the
jealously green tightly gritted teeth.
...and in the garden, the three stone bhuddas
watched with smiles, benign
and bellies round and sun warmed like watermelons.
original poem
(in italics)
"watermelons"
by
Charles Simic
