Fanatics
Poor travelling food
it lies on its belly
flat
a lonely piece of banana
fruit
once whole in its safe yellow
armour
now just a slither
naked
two nervous silly smiles
on a peanut butter bed
it lies on its belly
flat
black and white
kitchen tiles
spread
under the dull pain
of a lonely banana
sliced
massacred by hunger
undressed and cut
lengthwise
and again in bite size
and again in my eyes
en route to my mouth
carried upon bread
an open slice
without a parachute
or friend
from crumb-covered palm
a plump thud to the ground
and there
it rests
a long way from home
a crowded bunch in the sun
now stuck among dust bunnies
a bald alien
a pale piece of fruit flesh
vulnerable to far worse hands
and beastly lands
than this
a moderately cool floor
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