Ode to a Pineapple
Beneath that dark golden shell,
clad in husky thorns,
lies your sweet treasure.
Juicy and bright,
texture so tender,
a fragrant, cool sun.
Around the world you are so fascinating,
tantalizing.
You are the king of fruits,
a delectable saccharine gift,
God to the Hawaiians.
Dishes graded with your presence:
ham, cake, pizza, rice.
Your shape,
your facade,
painted, scribed, etched
upon various tapestries
of wool, wood, and paper.
Easily recognized
and undeniable.
Like a Ship
Our love is like a ship
sturdy and enduring.
It can survive the tumultuous
waves of our arguments
and can brave the deep waters
of our silence.
Our inside jokes and quarks
giving character like
the nicks and cracks of the wooden boards.
Sails billow in the wind,
uplifted by our mutual support.
She may not be a fast ship,
slow and steady,
taking the time to breathe in
the salty air of our personalities.
We know what this ship can do,
we know where the boards creak,
we know the sweat that went
into shaping the hull.
Without it we are lost at sea,
able to be battered and drowned
in the ever moving waves.
The destination is not the goal,
the journey is why we sail.
Smoke Thoughts
I take a deep pull
letting the smoke fill my lungs,
imagining how it looks from the inside.
It’s wispy and fluid,
circling ’round, getting into the crevices.
Out again it goes,
not quite as artistic.
I can’t make a boat or
rings like some of those fancy smokers.
I hold the cigarette between my fingers.
Delicately, it’s a fragile sort of thing.
So’s life though, you know?
My lips wrap around the end,
take in another drag.
This time I think of the hands that
pulled the tobacco leaves.
Calloused and raw. Maybe greying
from the ash and dust.
I think of the guy’s family,
the people he’s pulling these things for.
Got mouths to feed, bills to pay.
I think of the fingers that rolled this pack.
She’s got rough fingertips
from pressing the wrapper together.
Bandana ’round her head,
she can roll real fast.
Who does she go home to after all this?
I imagine she ain’t got much,
but what she’s got she’s proud of.
Worked hard to get what they got and keep it.
It’s a good sort of thing,
to work for something, earn it.
Thinking of people like that
makes me proud.
Like we’re connected by
something that we’ve got.
This cigarette’s connecting me to them.
I’m appreciating their work while
I’m taking a break from mine.
It’s a neat sort of feeling,
kind of surreal.
And lonely.
I’ll never know their names,
their faces.
Or their struggles.
Just me and this cigarette
sitting here in the night air.
Guess I’m strange to think on
a thing so much.
Maybe it’s a good thing.
Betrayal
There's nothing worse than seeing the look of disappointment in your best friend's eyes.
I didn’t mean it. Really, I didn’t. It was all I could do not to break down right there at the table. Your eyes painted with betrayal. I don’t know how I can fix this. How do I tell you that it was just an impulse? I hadn’t meant to break your trust, your heart. Honestly, I didn’t know it would affect you this much. There you sit, despite my notions, starting at me like a statue; Medusa’s unwitting victim. You haven’t blinked in at least two minutes. I took this too far. Maybe, if I just…. but then you go to speak.
“That was the last French fry.”
That feeling
There’s nothing better than the rain. Or maybe, the sweet juice that runs down your chin when you take the first bite of a big ripe peach. The smell of grass after its been mowed. That feeling you get when you hear an old song you used to love, singing the words at the top of your lungs. No, wait. It’s the sound of your best friend’s laugh after you’ve told a real zinger. The feeling of winning the race to the front door that your older brother always wins after getting groceries with mom. You know, maybe it’s all those things. Maybe there’s nothing better than that feeling of nostalgia. Yeah, there's nothing better than that.