A banker by trade,
and a good one, too,
lives in a nice condo
halfway between
his work and his girlfriend’s.
He followed her here
to the city,
from a small town
far south of here,
a very different place.
Determined, he applied
eight times for this job
and finally succeeded.
Two and a half years later,
I casually mention my garden
and see his face light up
with a passion I’ve never seen
from this professional.
He waxes eloquent
on watermelons and tomatoes,
proudly shows photos
of the hydroponic farm
he helped run,
reminisces about acres of corn,
hay, zucchini, beans,
and growing up farming –
uses the word “love”
in connection with plants
in a way no born-and-bred banker
could ever do.
Now he has to make do
with shade plants
on a small patio
while he tends his dream
of soil and sun.
The condo is temporary,
employment as stable
as these things get,
but the heart –
oh, the heart –
where is the home
of the heart?
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