Oh, Piece of Lettuce,
I saw you again today. Smashed against the concrete curb.
You have a new scar, I see from someone taking a turn too tightly.
I only know what you are because i saw what you were when you first fell there, green, fresh, probably from the upstate. Yes, upstate. You didn’t have the look of Yuma about you.
I passed you then because I knew that nature would wash you away to somewhere else. Or if nothing else, the city would take care of you.
You could have been so good for someone. At night do you dream about the sandwich you were plucked from? Was there a tomato you were closer to than the others?
It’s been days now. You sat there moving only an inch or two, yet still just a palm’s length from the trash can.
I would have picked you up yesterday, but I had already trashed a piece of newspaper a few blocks away.
The day before, I thought a dog would eat you when he sniffed with interest. Then I remembered, even dogs don’ t like lettuce.
Today you sit there, a brownish outline, barely recognizable for what you were. Waiting. Maybe for a pretentious passerby like me to have mercy and put you in the trash.
Today I will not pick you up because you look like you could harm me. Dirty, covered with slime.
No. Not me. I’d rather write a weird, vaguely metaphoric status or a book. I might even give a speech using you as an example.
Then take a bow for my skill at inspiring others to help ones like you.
After all, oh Lettuce, who else will give you this much attention.
See you tomorrow, brown, lettuce-shaped smudge. I’ve convinced myself there’s nothing organic left of you.