Failed Ode to Rotting Banana

This is an occasion for solemnity. 
In other words, be sad,
because the banana that I bought on Wednesday evening,
rummaging my way through grocery isles
and searching for that ultimate food fix,
committing the unforgivable sin of shopping whilst hungry—
that banana has expired. 


Now, I know what you're thinking,
or might be, or at least ought to be thinking:
'But Ata!' you say, 'bananas don't expire!
At least not in the way that, say, milk does!'
And right you are, my imaginary friend,
asking this question that serves
only to further the meagre plot of this poem. 
Right you are, indeed! Bananas
don't have their expiration dates
printed on them like milk, and,
unlike milk, they do not become inedible
as soon as they expire. Rather,
they die a slow and
petty death, gradually decaying,
getting worse and worse, and with each day,
you tell yourself, 'Oh,
I will assuredly do something with these browning bananas,
just as soon as I file my damn taxes
and throw out the milk, which,
incidentally, has also gone bad,'
until finally, they are so far beyond
being reasonably ripened, you are forced,
by virtue of yourself, to throw them away. 


That is what is happening. 
I find myself, each day, telling the old lie
that I shall use this brown banana to make some cookies with,
even though the last time I made cookies
I was at least a decade younger
and I used baking soda instead of sugar. 


I know, deep down, that this banana
is beyond my saving it. 
That is the tragedy. And yet,
what cements this
is that I ever bought it in the first place. 
Surely, in some other home,
on some other kitchen counter,
much more responsible person
should be using this banana
for better or for worse, not
not at all, such as I am. Surely,
this banana fell into the wrong hands,
and now
I almost kinda feel like weeping about it:
Something so small and insignificant,
having done nothing to nobody,
and here she is, utterly squandered. 


It's the petty tragedies in life
that make for meagre poems,
like a single banana
rotting on my windowsill,
and let the whole world know
that I have failed it.



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Endless Writer © Ata Zargarof 2020

BC, Canada