Gazpacho
I pause for a moment
checking my pulse, just for kicks
Drums set the pace that my heart readily follows
Momma tries to discuss the farmer’s market
but relents
to the brass band’s conversation in the background
We chop tomatoes in time
drawn to the smell of summertime and soul
Following the phrasing of the horn section
we slice cucumbers
As for the onions,
a vocalist enters the mix
Our eyes blur as we try to see her colors
laughing as we bite bread, our tongues, or the moment in attempt to stop the sting
We throw the ingredients in a bowl
realizing that the timbre of gazpacho
seems to be the same as summer
or funk.