Grandpa likes the ones from Nicoise.
He had some romantic adventures there.
He likes the ones with chili and spice;
when you kiss his mustache you can taste
the words that will turn into poems
and whispers of heat. You won’t know that,
but you will understand it in a few years.
I like the bright green ones with pimiento.
I am pedestrian. Give me a jar, a skewer,
let’s see how many we can stab with one try.
You put yours on a plate and eat them with
an afternoon snack. I’ ll put mine in a martini
and eat them with gin. We can discuss
the merits of both all day. You will understand
it in a few years, as you spit pits into your palm.
The surface of ungodly planets,
agar in a petri dish,
rain in the dust.
Burst bubbles on childhood
pancakes, rusty brown, speckled eggs of
dark gray, and cold.
The sound of water boiling
dances on the roof.