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249 Still Life bruce cohen The overripe mango in your fruit bowl might be a man napping in a hammock Attached to invisible trees in a breeze that seeks out women’s dresses. Your phone ringing in the middle of night might be your imagination, As my imagination might have the guts to call you, then hang up, then call, Then lose its nerve like a litter of middle school boys, giggling. You hear giggling on the other end of the phone but have no trouble Falling back to sleep, which is my insomnia, which is my shaving cream Secretly trying to return to its aerosol can, which is my stubble Receding back into my face, the razor growing sharper each second. I have been examining three perfect persimmons, given three guesses Behind three doors, three days of the week to select my appointment, Knowing that the later in the day, the more likely a delay, a long wait, A cancellation, an emergency, the good articles from the magazines ripped out. The fruit is growing riper still. The bananas are green but will not be for long And before long one of us will be trying to throw them out, brown and rotted, While the other wants to use them to bake banana bread before anyone wakes up. Tomorrow everyone will wake to the narcotic aroma of banana bread And they will be happy, very happy, for a brief moment before the day starts. ...


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