When he stopped to think about it—just for a little,
the total situation
evidenced by—
the skin
of that silly little mango
steeped in the long shadow
of the furtive
and furrowing memory
that stained
his depressed kitchen table,
was not really all that fantastic
a metaphor for progression.
Although—certainly!
the thing
appeared to be green—turning
yellow—and then? that perfect kind of
orange that seems
pink—but because it's been secretly
dreaming to be scarlet;
really, no it couldn't be any
one of those colors—at all,
because—as he saw it
there in that moment,
any great mango—
ought to display
each of them equally—all at once;
and besides,
he thought
if it was truly great—no wait, actually literally
none of them at all!
because someone
very much like himself—would have come
along and likely
devoured it
several hours ago now. And that skin?
It wouldn't have become anything
other than—shredded to an ugly pulp
and blotted out
with sweltering dark
coffee grounds in the garbage.
