inverted bashō

Matthew Kinkade, I love you. And every morning I see you, eyes still blearily gleaming in the morning light, I feel my love grow. This morning as the sun was rising over our house, quiet and simple and perfectly nestled in Summerside Residential Community, you walked out to your Hyundai sedan (a 2006 Sonata) and nearly tripped over the garden hose that had been left lying in the driveway. I was breathless for a minute, but you caught yourself gracefully, and silently noted the lifeless snake that you had been using to water the lawn yesterday, and kicked it aside with your shoe. I swooned. Placing your coffee, non-spill plastic mug, into the cup holder you sat for a moment in the car. Door open, an electronic tone pinging out into the still sleepy suburb, I wonder what you contemplated. You do this every so often before your commute, and sometimes I see a smile or sometimes it’s a sad gray look in your eyes. But I am just the banana tree in your front yard, and you do not notice me. Have a good day, darling.

View this story's 2 comments.