when I went to pick up fresh vanilla beans. 
They didn’t need to be gifted pomegranate syrup;  
they needed their heavy-metal  
front lawn lamp picked up and repaired,  
for the baked-in carcass welcome mat of 
some small animal scraped from the cement walkway,  
for the lone beehive rehomed to the backyard  
so the grass could be cut this year-  

this dry-fire hazard-season, dutifully waiting for the rains of September- year  
everyone praying for rain, smearing honey comb on their bodies  
to offer a sweet sweaty gift to the Gods,  
nectar to moisture.  

No, what they needed was the busted Subaru engine’s pistons  
replaced along with all the fluids,  
the walking baby who answered the door  
to have his swinging tiny penis covered with a diaper,  
windows closed with a strong A/C breeze kissing their air  
and skin with condensed coldness,  
for the skinny black & white cat to add some fat to his body.  

This family didn’t need the pomegranate syrup  
but the husband graciously accepted it  
telling me, My family loves to cook and try new foods.  .