Tomato Pessimism

In my enthusiasm to overcome
heat and drought
I may have overwatered.

I fear
my backyard tomatoes
will bear no fruit.

The pessimist that I am
would turn this failure
to a metaphor for life,

but all in all
things are going quite well,
as long as I deliberately ignore

the loneliness one experiences
while anticipating a future
devoid of tomatoes.

Batting Practice

My son, James, blasted whiffle balls
off the aluminum siding,
smiled a bit at the power of his swing,
and pumped a fist in excitement,
but then the storms rolled in,
humid and electric,
so the Little League games
were cancelled.

Some days batting practice
is for its own sake,
for the whizz of a ball
as it flies past your ear,
and the anticipation,
flinch of shoulders, just before
it smashes into the garage, and
comes to rest in the garden.

Some days batting practice
is simply batting practice,
but every day we must be ready
for the big game.

Partly Cloudy

As I watched,
the sun fought clouds
with ridiculous angles
above house rows
on the eastern horizon.

It brought to mind
the many mornings
I'd arrive to work,
be handed a shovel and told
have at it.

That was a long time ago,
but what I realized
as the clouds surrendered
is that I've never been much more
than unskilled labor,
a not unintelligent bullshitter.

With moderate determination,
and simple tools, I have held
slacker tendencies at bay
to edge out mediocrity.

I am a man with a shovel.
I am a partly cloudy day.