Black sheep of the fruit bowl.
Phallocentric witching rod of grocery stores
and jungles. Long and slender like the
Finger of God.
The banana sits patiently, never
intruding on my taste buds like an
or that apple-bottomed bitch,
Cat’s eye of parfaits and yogurts;
Banana – I sing to thee.
You stretch across
eras in time, connecting man to ape and
back into the sea
like a yellow submarine.
Banana – you are life.
Semi-soft beneath your
you remind us that we’re all mush in the center.
We’re all made of goo.
You never push,
you ripen, you peel, you slice, you split.
You’re my best friend, banana.
Now I’m going to eat you.