over rows of ripe swiss chard
with a potato in each plump hand
Jeremiah waddles toward the basket.
they tumble from his slow release
and he turns to you making a dirt cloud
against his Oshkosh bib.
you rub your belly and by implication
the one inside
three will be enough.
your focus returns to the unearthing -
two more dusty tubers. he says gank-you
like a bird and bounces back to the basket.
a curio on the ground, he pincers it
blindly against the sun
and his cherub hair whiffles
in beams of love.
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