By Eliot Jacobson
There are seventeen brands of water
on sale at Trader Joe’s and I’m thinking
infused with lavender essence,
because I want to be smart,
and lavender sounds like a Spring meadow—
lovers and their children,
being chased by bees,
all the times I ran
and how good I got at running—
and I’m reaching for
environmentally balanced beef
with an e-Coupon
redeemable for negative karma,
gluten free organic non-GMO Gala apples
each handcrafted by a wild
Arizona mustang’s bastard Kachina-child.
It’s such a relief to be healthy again.
My eyes stare hubble-blue at you.
I’m four inches taller than Jesus.
My abs are six-pack pop-top aphrodisiacs.
Oh dear love,
with eight reasons to doubt me,
put down your list and
help me carry these heavy bags.
Eliot Jacobson is a retired professor of mathematics and computer science who has a lifelong love affair with poetry. He has published several poems over the years but considers himself to be more of an affectionate spectator than a writer himself. Also by this poet: "The Book of Snacking"