Gravity, and Other Small Disasters

It starts with the thud of the bag,  

paper tearing its rust-colored cry open,  

gravity demanding its share of this moment.  

Cherry Tomatoes scatter, red marbles in rebellion,  

and I, on my knees, feel the sidewalk's breath,  

rough, unkind, pressing through my jeans.  

Behind me, the children’s giggles unravel,  

rolling like their La Croix cans into the street,  

their laughter bright as bicycle bells in summer.  

I fumble for the runaways, fingers  

seizing the slippery promise of fruit,  

only to watch them tumble,  

smirking toward the muddy edge.  

“Grab the cans!” I call, desperation  

wedged under my words, but still,  

the kids just laugh, radiant messengers  

of innocence, oblivious, or maybe not.  

I look at the slick tomatoes now,  

a mosaic of dirt and defeated sheen,  

while their laughter fills the cracks of the day.  

It echoes—big enough to soften fury,  

small enough to fit in a pocket,  

and I wonder if next time, I'll join in.