Tonight I’ll sleep 

in perennial growth

with a freshly bought amaranth

sprouting on my bedside pine.

First, I must grow a friendship 

with my neighbor Berry.

We live on Chester Ave

along a street of two-story houses,

tree lined with mirror front yards 

on the southern sliver of San Francisco.

Whenever Berry spots my resident frame

on a sidewalk 

or the sidewalk that vines 

to the adult movie theater 

in Stonestown, his mouth cyclically

sprouts a smile.

I’ve decided: I’ll bake him an amaranth 

velvet cake. As I’m mixing 

the dough, I drop in a few blood drops

like the Aztecs did 

so many seasons ago. The Aztecs

didn’t own an ancient Kitchen Aid —

Berry’s cake is born faster. 

As our feet grip Chester concrete 

under a flower vase streetlight,

I hand him my red delight — 

my bandaged ring finger exposed —

oh he smiles a jungle,

a jungle gym of happiness. 

Back home, after I water

my bedside companion, I prepare for sleep.

Surely Berry will smile anew

in my rooted dream.

I want him, I need him

to plant an amaranth seed 

into the germinated soil 

within my body’s garden.

Published in Monetized Happiness (American Poetry Systems, 2025)