Pineapple

A taste of someone else’s home.

 

 

The fruit of sunrise,

Spiked skin bristling

As I turn it in my palm,

Lay it down on the board;

The detail is in the execution,

A tropical demise

I sawed, saw white sand

Cubed chunks

And threw out the core;

Added rum, coconut milk

Stirred,

Brought out the tall glasses

And felt the ice melt

I could be miles away,

Could pretend I was somewhere else

Instead, the drinks stood sullenly

On their faded tray,

And refused to blast their warm yellow;

And mourned for a sun,

Which once beamed hotly for them;

I took a sip,

Firmly placed,

Tasted a longing

Far from home

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Author:

Amber R Walker, Hull, Creative Writer, Bookmaker, Lover of art

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