Sometimes, I envy a ripe banana:
it is a thing that hangs,
until just the time
when it is ready for the world.

Instead, here I stand
with my shirt off --
my guts hanging out --
and either no one sees
or everyone does
while they quietly gather
the nails to drive
through my palms and feet,
checking my pulse
a forkful deep at a time
to see if the cake batter cooked,
only as if to say,
"You're sweet, really,
but you've never amounted
to much more
than pudding."

the avocado blanches,
and I take the pit
and place it on the shelf
as a reminder
that every ripe fruit
must, at once, know its core.




Copyright © 2016 John Grimmett. All rights reserved.

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