Ode to a Banana
Dance, banana, dance
you are so mysteriously sweet
like Perez Prado's Mambo #5,
your sloping twisty sides
your gentle yellow curve
all waiting for the freckles
to appear so you can be
stripped, stripped, stripped
and stripped once more
when we can all taste
your cream-colored inside,
your soft Southern sweetness.
Sweetness
With fresh eyes I
glimpse the salmon color
of the fruit that robs me
of sweet slumber
and the hue is a traitor
for a different agent
of wetness that is all
on the inside and contains
the sweetness that I want
now drained of the juice
of sleep I search for,
the orange cousin of
the honeydew and
its Latin mango sister,
yes ah, the cantaloupe
Gene Goldfarb lives in New York City, where he ponders, love, hate, mortality He loves movies, books, travel, and international cuisine. His poetry has appeared in the small press including Black Fox, The Daily Drunk, The Gorko Gazette, Rat's Ass Review, Bullshit Lit, and elsewhere.
Dance, banana, dance
you are so mysteriously sweet
like Perez Prado's Mambo #5,
your sloping twisty sides
your gentle yellow curve
all waiting for the freckles
to appear so you can be
stripped, stripped, stripped
and stripped once more
when we can all taste
your cream-colored inside,
your soft Southern sweetness.
Sweetness
With fresh eyes I
glimpse the salmon color
of the fruit that robs me
of sweet slumber
and the hue is a traitor
for a different agent
of wetness that is all
on the inside and contains
the sweetness that I want
now drained of the juice
of sleep I search for,
the orange cousin of
the honeydew and
its Latin mango sister,
yes ah, the cantaloupe
Gene Goldfarb lives in New York City, where he ponders, love, hate, mortality He loves movies, books, travel, and international cuisine. His poetry has appeared in the small press including Black Fox, The Daily Drunk, The Gorko Gazette, Rat's Ass Review, Bullshit Lit, and elsewhere.
