From his mango tree in his side yard.
I don't really like mango.
But I accepted it.
Brought it home.
Put it on the island in the kitchen.
The last two mornings.
The last two evenings.
I considered the mango.
Should I put in a smoothie?
I don't really want it.
But I feel bad just throwing it out.
Maybe my neighbor John wants it.
He is Jamaican and is always working out in his garage.
If he were outside, I'd give it to him.
But I don't want to knock on his door.
If his wife or son were to answer.
Then I'd have to make small talk.
I forget about the mango.
Watch a nonsense show.
I need more nonsense in my life.
Before bed, I go to the kitchen.
Craving a cookie, I turn on the light.
There's the mango, just sitting there.
I go with the ostrich syndrome.
If I don't see it, it's not there.
Turn off the light, go to bed.
Dream of eating McDonald's.
With Mennonites and my producer, Abby.
In the morning, the mango is the first thing I think of.
Downstairs, it's still there.
As if it would somehow have grown legs.
And disappeared during the night.
Dave calls, asks how the mango is.
It's great, I say.
Delicious in every way.
The next day, the mango drips.
Ooey gooey juice drips onto the marble countertop.
I must say goodbye to the mango.
A fly circles it, lands on it with love.
I place the mango in my side yard.
For the flies and other bugs and maybe a wayward raccoon.
I am happy Dave doesn't read poetry.
Because then he would know.
I wasted his mango.
But then he would also know.
I feel bad about it.
Maybe I should've just eaten the mango.