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They almost certainly would never have said a thing,
except on the playground a brown-haired, bowl-cut boy
named Tony something had remarked that the tomatoes
were growing in a slurred hungry voice that spit with glee.
There was laughter at his gesture; hands splayed out
in front of his bony chest, flashed up and down, rocking,
mocking, as if he were trying
to juggle cantaloupe beneath
his shirt. He swayed, both knees bent, sauntering forward
into the crowd. All that year we had worked together,