Yellow skin ripens with age
The inner body enclosed by a cage,
The warmth of sunlight browns the skin
The intestinal fruit safe within.
One day goes by followed by two
The aging peel looks like brown mushed goo,
Full of life, time kills another
The baffling sense of what to do requires my mother.
She looks at the poor thing right there on the counter
It seems wretched next to Granny Smith’s sour,
She sighs and heads straight to the book
This routine is so everyday, I don’t even look
She peels it right there on the countertop
Throws away the remains in the garbage, plop,
I watch as she takes the tool to smash the spread
Another one left alone to be lost to banana bread.