In fact, thirty-seven minutes prior found me searching for said pineapple among the monied hipsters and professors at the local, organic City Market.
I walked on my toes amid crowds of dreaded heads, expensive leather, the onslaught of patchouli, wave after wave. It was my treat, this golden fruit. Tax return snugly nested in my account, I was ready to yank out its feathers and force it to fly. Get my golden fruit, you filth.
Now I eat in silence, cubes of soft gold-yellow disappearing to the rim of my mouth, falling to the soft dark of my middle, leaving faint smells of Hawaii, Florida, Cuba on the pink of my fingers, sliding into the open cracks on my knuckles, making red go snap! Here, bitch!
I hear measuring tapes cracking. I wish they would go. Harvest some pineapple or something. Be useful.
I could use a new country, maybe Brazil
where the sun knives my skin, paring it down to the flesh of a peach
where even saudade is an overripe taste, a bearable linger like the
sun through the skin of leaves.