I thought somebody
put the banana
on top of my car
to ripen. However,
that is poor food strategy.
So maybe somebody
laid it there because he
had to tie his shoe
or answer a text
or adjust the leash
on his dog.
I would have left it,
but it looked good.
I checked it for suspicious marks
and needle pricks.
I figured the peel
was protection enough
against germs and
noxious cooties.
So I ate it.
It was just fine.
I pull out #140 cold press paper
and arrange the supplies.
I sketch a faint, droopy T
to center my art.
With a fine HB pencil and a light touch,
I shape an oval—
flattening your cap’s dented dome.
Now for the base.
Unlike a tree, you are wide as can be:
a thick, bulbous cylinder
for an inch-tall stalk.
Basic geometry.
I look up.
Morning sun strikes from the east.
I shadow your underside
and slice a horizontal line for loamy soil.
Pulling back, I consider your texture:
long, hatching strokes for the stalk,
smaller, frantic slashes for the cap.
I blend in natural dots—
slightly flawed.
The pencil rests.
I dip a #8 faux sable brush into pigment,
then into water.
A thin, bleeding wash of cadmium for the cap,
a pale, back-and-forth cream-tan for the base.
I study your underbelly.
Blow the cap dry.
Darken your spots.
Now, your warts.
I change my brush,
stipple on a harsh, bumpy texture
in dioxazine violet tones.
Step back again.
Mix yellow umbre to catch the light.
How deep does your base grow?
An inch? Two?
Anchored in by a dense web of hidden threads,
feeding on each other,
I understand.
But no others are close.
This is good.
I remove the spoon from my tea cup,
dig around,
dig deeper,
scoop you onto the paper.
I fold all up tight,
hold you over the fire pit.
Drop you.
Eradicate you.
Symbolic only?
I pray another prayer—
that the surgeon’s steel, too,
cuts out my friend’s fungal-
shaped cancer, leaving
not a single vestige.
pale angel in moonlight
bathes frail frame
after falling from afar
transforms herself
just enough to feel fear
that it wouldn’t be enough
Life is not all sunshine and roses but also people in poses who act like they are fine but are really toeing the line of being fine and able to function to being a train wreck at the junction The outside looks happy and normal the inside is a mess and less formal But people see what they want to see and are as blind to pain as they want to be So, open your eyes and really look for places to help and let yourself be shook by someone else's pain instead of seeing the remain when through the cracks some slip and become a statistical blip
The unchanged river beckons
me with an evening greeting. My dearest
sits in his chair watching our river
welcome another sunset,
while distant buildings flash golden,
touched, as I am, by its glory.
Next to him, the still water
and the sun’s display,
I think I may never leave again.
