Yellow Pears

Each yellow pear
I cut up
to line up
on my white plate
reminds me how
I used to dream
of hanging from that tree
in my father’s backyard,
like kite string tangled up,
weighted down
by the heaviness of nothing.
Each yellow pear
sitting in that bowl,
with five fruit flies
hovering up above
like the night;
Like this night,
that I struggled
for hours to think up
anything to write.
Each yellow pear,
I bite,
juicier than the prior.
Crickets were louder
when I was a child.
Popsicles were redder,
if that is even possible.
Most things today seem
that they were just more,
more something more
than what they are.
But these yellow pears
never fade.
And each yellow pear,
cut up, reminds me
I am lucky to never
hang there
like stars in the night.
But I too, was just more,
more something more
than who I seem today.
Tomorrow, I might
do something more—
but for now, this night is up.
And besides, I have run out
of yellow pears.
And as I re-read this poem
in the morning,
it will seem like it was more,
more something more
last night
than it is this morning.

written on 10/12/2010 by: Matt Kane