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« Through the window | Main | Trying To Distill It »

Dying for fruit

One by one, they move away, claiming
I'm too old to explore their depths, too diseased
to enjoy their physiques, too surly
to savor the sweetness that makes them unique. So much negativity. Yet
it's true: fruit no longer opens up

to me, divulging its pulp, reveling in
how my teeth sink in.  
Apples, mangos, kiwis, plums, they're like
some folks I know, uneasy around the new, too wedded
to tradition to study how dying means

(in certain cases)

focus, being
so alive that death can't screw with you.  

But the ones who want you dead think otherwise.  
"It's comin' fer ya," Billy's dad tells me in a dream.  
From his cigarette, smoke curls upward, dissolves.
Outside the Brass Rail Bar, we watch
a train rattle toward Massapequa.  

What I wouldn't have given
for a taste of banana, then!

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