Wanderings

I am hip to that square
of cool concrete, not quite a column,
where I like to stand when I’ve nothing
particular to do. I am shaded there too, sickly
green by the white of a midday sun, the way
it filters through an overhanging liveliness that is life-
less for one breeze-free moment. Here I overhear
a man talking about a book, an autobiography
he’s read that isn’t very auto.
I don’t care very much
about it, but it sounds like he says it
got “grave reviews,” and he (and it) might have,
but why would he (or it)? Whether it was really “great,”
or “rave,” or indeed “grave”, my thoughts turn
away instead, to the red grapes I have at home
and how I like them to ripen until they fall off
the vine with a special, spicy sweetness.