Grow. Like the bristles on your chin,
Or the awkward toenail on my leftfoot.
Each morning as you pad downstairs,
You stop to water the pak-choi on the roof
Before assuming station at the table by the window.

Send me that virtual newspaper clipping.
Gather a veritable feast of sounds –
The crinkle, the crunch, the plop of an olive
Diving back into its jar after sliding off the prongs of
a fork.

“Did you hear?” the morse code keyboard.
There used to be trains running
And a street full of engines
Now in the quiet, you cook me dinner
And, after supper, burn your tongue on the tea I pour.

by HR Gibs
Illustrated by Sam Meyerson


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Rain, Rain

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