my lunch a banana
under ripe to my taste
this once hung tuber in bunches,
yellow fibrous fruit
clustered in familied plantain.
you are mother to a well-hated hanger on,
that thin, stringy extra, neither skin nor flesh,
lurker, hiding on your surface in plain sight,
delayer of my meal as I peal,
tainting tweezer fingers with his white residue.
he is unclean
born of banana but now discarded
and I ponder -
is he saved in the trash
or broken blessed
once I notice his scab on her skin,
layer to shed unfavorite fetter,
for the rest I consume.
no science in answer
no religion forbidding
yet universal abhorrence for him
like plague on plague
surrounding his tepid thread.
I won't eat him,
his back of bus,
And I don't know why.