I did it all—good soil right pot

I did it all—good soil, right pot,

the south-facing ledge of the fire escape.

Seed in March. By June the vine had got

thick on its stake, begun to drape

the railing. Then it flowered, yellow, small.

Three fruits set after, hard and green.

I told myself: by August, maybe fall.

Five weeks now. Nothing in between

has changed. Same three marbles, tight

and stubborn on the stem. The vine

keeps growing anyway—each night

another tendril, new leaves, a sign

of health in every direction but the one

that matters. I water it each morning, barefoot

on the grate, the watering can, the sun

not up yet. I put

my faith in soil and drainage

and the light was right and the roots are strong

and still the fruit sits at some stage

it won't move past. Something's wrong

or nothing is—I can't tell which is worse.

The vine's alive. The vine is thriving.

The fruit stays green, a small reverse

I keep expecting to stop arriving.

Three hard stones in the morning light.

I tip the can. The soil goes dark.

Tomorrow they'll look the same. I might

stop checking. I keep saying that. The mark

of the watering can's rim on my palm

won't fade by noon. I go inside.

The vine climbs past the railing, calm

and reaching. Nothing's died.

That's not the problem.