leafed out romaine, almost sweet,
held near mouths,
smelly tongues, decay of gums,
lies blown stale into shiny leaves.
Others, gold, peeled back corn,
cradled tight by sweaty hands
sowing grime in kerneled rows.
And, black ones, sleek,
like Asian eggplants, curved, petite,
held to waxy ears, shriveled, old.
Too often I have boarded flights
phoneless, carried only hope to stow,
noticed my thumb twitching,
quite alone,
not yet covered by a film of mold.