Sprouting Onions in the Kitchen

Who among us hasn’t received the
overdue notice from the last two
yellow onions in the five pound bag;
now spouting green Vesuvial
eruptions from the kitchen hanging
basket and chanting some days,
enough is just too much.

Who among us hasn’t worn regret’s
papery skin at words unsaid, actions
unbegun? The love yous and hugs that now
float down-river, caught perhaps in remnants
of a green mesh plastic sack, like the one
now holding these two flaccid onions.

Who among us hasn’t named regret —
brother, sister, or first cousin, though
tomorrow, and all days thereafter,
are a kitchen counter wiped clean:
a floor just swept.

Gary D. Grossman
Verse-Virtual August 2024