I find a spot on the kitchen table
where an old brown grape vine lies
defiantly lost between computers colored pencils
keys paper teacups and electrical cords
twisted and knotty
like a dry naked bruised and scanty tree in winter
a solitary, minuscule grape
wrinkled and brown
still hanging
from a tiny ventricle of a branch
empty and sagging
creased with tiredness
but still
somehow
hanging
from the tiniest arm of a vine
a single grape
attached,
still hanging.
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