''That's a Nice Looking Papaya''

by Richard Cairo

''THAT'S a nice looking papaya,''
she says, and it makes me wonder
why: Is she picturing the papaya's moist
insides, the color of excited flesh
and south of the border sunsets, places I've read about
but never been.
Is she imagining its tiny shiny black seeds
that resemble caviar,
caviar I'll never be
able to afford
on my poetary income?
Does she delight in the tropical fruit's oblong
roundness and wish I had asscheeks
of substance
so that my jeans
wouldn't sag like dead balloons?
Or worse, does its shape
make her lament
my long-lost
right testicle?
(Oh dear, long-lost Heckle.)

''That's a nice looking papaya,'' she says,
and I'm a broken man.

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