Subject: When did I Get So Particular . . .
our daughter works in the produce section of a small organic market and often does the shopping now. She gets 20%. We’re out of bananas I say, but only get the slender ones, not the big fat ones. And don’t get green ones. You know me, I don’t buy green bananas, and she nods because she knows. Oh yeah, over and over she knows. And tangerines - get them when they are a little soft, but not too soft - you can tell the ones that are easy to peel. And there’s a secret to bosc pears, too . . . but okay we’ll save that for another day.
I’m like the old woman in a scarf and layers of big clothes and a little shopping bag - mine is Pancho Villa, pink - from a student - and when did I get so particular about my fruit, when did house samurai trade his shovel and hoe and ax and shears and typewriter and ties and briefcase and satchels and rolled joints in the glove box and jazz on the radio and homemade invoices and dread of rainy mornings and the arrival of Christmas with no money but still the bills and now gifts, and the song shine of family . . . basketballs, too, converse and ankle braces and bags of ice . . . & the classic car and vintage truck . . . for the fruit shopper who has the inside angle, knows where to go, and when and what to buy, and how, and now, writes when he wants, feels himself rise when it strikes, no matter the time time or the where where and writes because it’s now and waiting for then will leave him standing on the platform . . . waiting for a train that may not come 'round again ~