The wicker basket is full of bananas.
Half are green.
Half are black.
It’s raining now
and Stephen is dead.
The sky is dark like an animal’s eye.
The basket is old.
We’ve had it for years.
Water is standing in the front yard.
I used to cry for men like Stephen.
Gnats are buzzing around the bananas.
He died last week.
An angry man.
A Southern anger.
Anger that feeds on the damp air and heat.
The rain's like an animal.
Loose in the city.
The sky is dark.
I don’t cry anymore.
The wicker basket is frayed and torn.
It was never meant for holding bananas.
-for etouffee