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Brown Bananas. Day 239.

I asked Baylee what I should write about today and he said brown bananas. I feel a prose poem coming on:

For the hot bread, falling apart, a little underdone. Square butter pat pat, light creamy yellow, slides to the side as it becomes one with the squishy baked good; Or the glistening mush that escapes the broken peel amongst the Galas and Honeycrisps in the wooden bowl on the red and white gingham cotton cloth; Or the metaphor of life with the new turning old and don’t buy the green ones cause you never know; A not brown but almost tan baby’s first solid or a helpful, sweet bite for an aging, beloved aunt; a September find in a plaid Jansport, forgotten since late May, back to school; Tiny flies living up to their name, back and forth in a fight to dive into the shiny mush to grab a mouthful then roll their little eyeballs; Shoved in a Ninja with Dannon and honey and hard, frozen Walmart fruit. Pulverized;

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