Poetry By
Katherine Beasley
Published on: 2/9/2010
Wishbone Musings
I wish I were a pumpkin. I wouldn't mind the propensity to roll; the complete lack of hair could be refreshing, and under the right lighting orange is really a regal color. But magical transmutation into squash is dicey -- perhaps I'd come out a zucchini. Sliced, steamed, and oozing vitamin juice alongside some Tater Tots and a piece of baked chicken; living and dying for the slimy clenching slide down a child's unwilling throat, a journey only half of me completes (his price for Nintendo) -- the other half insinkerated with yesterday's peas and a soggy, nutrient-contaminated Tater Tot. The cucurbit equivalent of the pimply boy in highwaters that nobody would sit with on the bus unless their mom was the driver. But those pumpkins . . . wrapped in titian bomber jackets, smoking clove cigarettes and comparing scars -- adored, cherished, cultural icons. Popular. Even when they meet their end, the crowds pay homage: "The pie, the pie!" How I wish I were a pumpkin.
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