A banana skin

The man who runs the dry cleaners
will no longer let us walk past his shop
without handing you a banana.
You say thank you with mixed up letters
and lift it up like a freshly washed sun.
I spend 20 minutes a night
on a sheet of a thousand miniatures spikes
to puncture the thin skin that’s wrapped
too tightly to let sleep begin. Here,
stood between the teeth of banana giver
and banana taker, I feel it melting.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

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