The Celery Heart
—Placard at Hinky Dinky
Surely it misses those long fly balls of light
its leaves once leapt to catch, or longs to run
its roots out into the salty darkness.
What once looked like a Roman fountain
is now a ruin of fallen columns
bedded on ice. Its only consolations are,
at regular intervals, the hiss of mist,
and at times the warm and reassuring squeeze
of passing hand. But better this, by far,
than to be the sullen heart of artichoke,
stripped of its knives and heavy armor
and mummified for eons in a jar of brine.
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