Popcorn

I’m sorry that I wasn’t the rings to your Saturn,

because Saturn had cracked into two;

I’m sorry that I slipped salt into your sugar,

yet your sugar was bitter, I cried too.

I’m sorry that you never learned to care,

Irritation bubbles and boils and brews, 
bakes into the stomach lining, 
infects the red flesh with greenish hues

it works its way up and up, 
malady clambering, climbing 
toward the beating hub

An emerald sweep

of thin spears stretches

through the garden,

past the rough concrete

platform decorated with chairs

of red banded with white,

along the little reservoir

of spitting water,