Jono Tosch
My Little Cabbage

This is an orchard of your letters.
Your letters grow their own fruits. 
Sometimes I walk up to one 
to smell its fragrance.   Your letters
smell good to me.  They are radiant
and they heat small rooms.  Your
letters cut through all the garbage
of long days on the job.  Mondays
are hard.  Your letters are cushions.
Sometimes I take one down from
the wall and put it under my bottom
to make myself feel better.  Pear trees
grow in strange places, but your letters
grow fatter and more robustly.  When 
one of my moods prevails on me,
your letters take me to the place
where I can make good choices.
Sometimes I point the hair dryer
at the wonderful greenery of your letters
and I stop worrying about everything
that typically worries me.  Your letters
suck sadness out of the world.  They
should be in a museum.  People should
have to pay money and climb up huge
stairs to stand under them.  I hope the
mail man’s hands tingle when he puts
one of your letters into his satchel.  My
hands do.  My hands are lathes and I am
turning your letters into bed posts.