All, Poetry

Cherries in The Bowl

There were cherries in the bowl,
Ripe and sweet beneath plump plum-colored skins

But now only pits and stems remain,
Strewn about like entrails no longer contained,
In fructose puddles, which will soon bring ants on parade –

But if I wash the bowl, how will I remember the cherries I ate
The fructose that sweetened, for a moment, this sour day
And hopefully helped my constipation, keeping the pink plasma in my stool at bay

Ah it’s probably just the stress, the love of a damn miserable girl,
And nothing more than a case for water and maybe Preperation H,
But it breaks my heart, why I ate cherries today.

Because in another life, we’ll drink cherry wine
And instead of me eating cherries and whining, feeling like I’m dying, saying:

It’s just the stress
It’s just the stress

I won’t have the love of a damn miserable girl.


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