Sometimes I wonder whether tomatoes feel the slice of my blade,
whether carrots feel ignored as they languish in the fridge.
I plan a pot roast to make them feel useful, then wonder
whether they fear the slow simmer beside meat and potatoes.
I worry that castoff jackets and sweaters feel abandoned. Do they
long to reach out with their empty arms, ask mine to return?
Are old shirts and sheets insulted when I turn them into rags,
or do they feel as though they have new reason to serve?
Perhaps I ought to fret over World Peace, melting ice caps,
or identity theft, but the pain of a tomato is easily staunched
by having a Caesar salad, and I’ve decided that my old
green sweater is soft and warm, still perfect for a winter day.
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