Pineapples And Pomegranates
To think that, as a boy of thirteen, I would grapple
With my first pineapple,
Its exposed breast
Setting itself as another test
Of my will-power, knowing in my bones
That it stood for something other than itself alone
While having absolutely no sense
Of its being a world-wide symbol of munificence.
Munificence-right? Not munitions, if you understand
Where I’m coming from. As if the open hand
Might, for once, put paid
To the hand-grenade
In one corner of the planet.
I’m talking about pineapples-right?-not pomegranates.
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