When There Was Still Time
before we pulled the membranes off
the grapes, our eyeballs were still tight
in our faces. We looked silently
at each other and pondered our moms
one of whom had asked the other
for a quarter ounce of oregano
in a sandwich bag — then she handed
it to us. Did they know about our
seasoning hobby? Really, how could
they not? Was this a joke, a test
of some sort? It was summer.
We were going out soon to explore
the park across the street and look
at things through our new pair
of green eyeballs — but at that moment
at the kitchen table, with the oregano
in the sandwich bag, and the grapes
still membraned, the air conditioner
weeping was something we couldn’t
understand or perceive. The air —
even existence itself — smelled
to us green, green, green
the grapes, our eyeballs were still tight
in our faces. We looked silently
at each other and pondered our moms
one of whom had asked the other
for a quarter ounce of oregano
in a sandwich bag — then she handed
it to us. Did they know about our
seasoning hobby? Really, how could
they not? Was this a joke, a test
of some sort? It was summer.
We were going out soon to explore
the park across the street and look
at things through our new pair
of green eyeballs — but at that moment
at the kitchen table, with the oregano
in the sandwich bag, and the grapes
still membraned, the air conditioner
weeping was something we couldn’t
understand or perceive. The air —
even existence itself — smelled
to us green, green, green
—Eric Reymond
© 2026 Eric Reymond, all rights reserved
Eric Reymond's poetry collections are available from New Texture. Click their titles to purchase copies from Amazon: Nimrodia and Sub-Sub Librarian, Extracts on a
