I pause for a moment

checking my pulse, just for kicks

Drums set the pace that my heart readily follows

Momma tries to discuss the farmer’s market

but relents

to the brass band’s conversation in the background

We chop tomatoes in time

drawn to the smell of summertime and soul

Following the phrasing of the horn section

we slice cucumbers

As for the onions,

a vocalist enters the mix

Our eyes blur as we try to see her colors

laughing as we bite bread, our tongues, or the moment in attempt to stop the sting

We throw the ingredients in a bowl

realizing that the timbre of gazpacho

seems to be the same as summer

or funk.