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Published on: 2/9/2010
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.
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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