fruit basket

poem

by eugyoung h. grade 11

 

 

 

As soon as the dark paint gets washed off the sky, and

when the needle points the large 5,

the clashing and banging starts.

 

It sounds like there’s a quinceanera

in the kitchen. No, it’s more like

a cacerolazos.

 

Annoyed and angry, I march into the kitchen

“What’s going on?” I ask,

putting a hand on my hip.

 

She turns around like a little puppet.

Those friendly ones you see in a TV show.

Constantly smiling, warm, always trying to make you happy.

 

“Come have some breakfast,” she says.

She shows me a basket full of strawberries and apples.

It’s not really what I want to eat.

 

I push the basket out of my way, and

the fruits roll out, falling to the ground.

“It’s alright, I’ll clean that up,” my mom says.

 

She bends down and picks the fallen fruit.

With her cracked, hardened hand, she wipes the surface.

“See? All good,” she says and puts them back into the basket.

 

I’m standing by the table, speechless.

“I’ll just leave these here,” she says,

“In case you get hungry later.”