Avocados

Groggily leering at a bowl of avocados

each labeled individually

of their own accord—

speaking through 

my morning haze, 

“Why do they label each fruit

individually? What are you

supposed to do with the stickers?”

I think drearily

of apple stickers 

stuck upon counters,

walls, wherever,

and how my wife 

thought it stupid

that they would let 

their children defile

the habitation that now

temporarily became ours.

“How do you know it was

the kids?” I asked,

thinking of how I’d never

seen our children eat apples without first 

being sliced individually.

And Ron has never even 

taken time to remove the sticker,

just biting into the apple

devouring peel, paper and all.

But that’s apples 

and these are avocados

and you never eat the peel 

of an avocado

so it can just compost itself 

away as if being swallowed

whole by a man

who is indifferent to stickers

of red delicious gala

golden delicious cosmic crisp

jonathan counter top

chair floor avocado

worms grass beetles…

And my morning thoughts 

slip drearily into breakfast

and apple slices and

avocado toast and compost

and men and women and children

and furniture and

aren’t those avocados arranged beautifully?

March 2021

About This Poem

This is a poem that roams into the world of stream of consciousness based upon a bowl of avocados and what they made me think of. Life can seem so random and things from nowhere can make you think of the strangest memories or projections. This poem is an example of that. I'm sorry I had to use a fruit stand shot, but apparently I don't take photos of avocados, in spite of the thoughts they inspire in me.