Still Life

Two weary oranges sit in a cracked
wooden bowl. In California there
is always a navel to contemplate,
but I have abandoned these dimpled globes
for sexier fruit.

They have company. Three bananas
lean against the curved belly
of the bowl, their sunny skins thinning
into a melanoma of ripeness.
The air is sweet with ruination.

In the rotting fruit, decadence born
of carelessness and disconnection. Looking
closer, the brown hands that cut, plucked,
sorted and packed, worked
many hours for few dollars. Dusty hands,
scraped and cracked like the bowl.
—
This poem is a result of an exercise suggested by Jack Martin.