Bananas

We all need to eat the bananas
That are sitting on the counter
In the kitchen in the white bowl
With a delicate filigree of blue
Pinstripes, two of them, on the
Rim where the tips of two of them,
The bananas I mean, are jutting
Over

And starting to turn from pure yellow
To brown and yellow with a cluster
Of spots on each flat of the fruit
That tomorrow will be connected
With a fine filigree of brown lines
Linking them, and, after that,
Well everyone knows what happens,
All the fingers will be pure brown
With the hidden, soft pulp under
The skin jutting out and swollen.

Isn’t it strange how the one who
Buys the bananas eats just one
After she comes home from the
Market with a load of other things
That do not so quickly turn brown,
Even in the refrigerator, though
Putting bananas there won’t make
Any difference, and how she adroitly
Avoids the bowl, the blue one with
Pinstripes right on the counter where
Anyone can see it as he enters the
Kitchen, even for breakfast when
The lights aren’t on yet. But she

Remembers the bananas when he
Comes in, and after a few days
Begins to ask why he isn’t eating
Them, doesn’t he notice they are
Turning brown and soon will be
Too soft to eat although he says
They are best when the brown
Spots are all one, and he will eat
Them tomorrow at breakfast on
Cereal, if it isn’t too dark to see
Them, and he doesn’t maybe
Forget


By David King

Copyright 2006 by David King.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Lazy Days

Lazy days on the boardwalk;
plodding along; distended belly bouncing
as my body sways to the beat of music
drifting from open shops.

Finding a shaded spot,
I settle between permanent vendors,
melding into the backdrop,
oblivious to all who stroll by.

Elderly men and women stroll
along the wooden walkway,
a salty ocean breeze
lifting their shirts and skirts.

Triumphant yells pierce the air as a man grasps his kill
from the jaws of the claw machine;
both exhausted at the hunt and capture,
victorious he waives the flopping animal.

My unborn child lurches at the scent of pizza and fries,
so I purchase sustenance as
dogs walk their owners and
wheel chairs squeak.

Sighing contentedly, I prop my feet,
ankles resting on a vacant bench;
a pathway beneath me
for scavenging birds of the day.



A memory poem by Jennifer L. Stinson.

Copyright 2006 by Jennifer L. Stinson.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.