TODAY IS WEDNESDAY, AND THE TO-DO
LIST IS LONG

Somebody woke up sad today, or rather, is 
still wide-eyed and supine 

since yesterday playing he loves me, he loves me 
not, with a dream

-like flower blooming close to infinite 
petals, except the verb is not to love.

The question here is whether it is possible 
to know him more deeply

now that he is gone. Maybe
a morning coffee could have been the invitation

that convinced him to have some supernatural, final heart
-to-heart, but it’s too late

to acquire the taste—another joy 
unavailable as a result of early predilections. So, 

not that. She thinks, I know 
you didn’t garden much, 

but, God, there is 
so much work to do. I have to 

take my car to the shop 
today. We could 

do it there. In the oil
-stained waiting 

room you could appear 
and open

as if I were the sun.
Or at home, merely

counting bugs 
on the honeysuckle because 

I said please. Then, 
at least we could walk around 

and around the flowerbed,
and you could tell me why 

on earth 
we installed a fence 

for decoration, 
perpetually 

unfinished, purposeless 
as the night.

Benjamin Faro is a green-thumbed writer and educator living in Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic. His Pushcart-nominated writing has appeared in About Place Journal, American Literary Review, Cream City Review, EcoTheo Review, Nimrod International Journal, Portland Review, TIMBER Journal, San Pedro River Review, West Trade Review, and elsewhere.