Self-Portrait
I'm a pear. A washed pear.
How does one live
like this: easily held,
always still or waiting
to be eaten or who knows what.
I guess it's not so bad, though:
aren't I a delicacy somewhere,
fit on a plate
with gorgonzola, romaine
and raspberry vinaigrette?
There are the obviously pitfalls.
I have no ass, no penis --
just tough skin and sweet meat.
I can't even love. I get lost
in the earth when done with, and then?
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