banana bread

that unmistakable smooth yellow fruit
pounded into a loaf shape
like flour and water and sugar
is still calling me
from crusty bits of chocolate.

Calling me because
there’s been a misfire
in someone’s neurons.
There’e been a misfire
in how the hose fits the radiator,
spraying antifreeze through the front.
There’s been a misfire in how I remember
the smooth taste of pumpkin, mashed in
chocolate chips, and how long
since you last made my favorite bread.

But that’s life, you’d say,
I’ve been busy,
you know.

I agree. We’re all too busy
trying to fit the stars in their correct
shapes, trying to plug up the little holes
in the curtains.
Either that or the dust will get to it first.

It’s not right, you know,
how we’re always looking at bananas upside down.
We wouldn’t know. We didn’t pick them,
didn’t climb the trees, didn’t wait for it to ripen,
didn’t enjoy the banana before it turned brown.
We’re failures as monkeys, after all.