a food-centric poem inspired by Sandra Beasley's delicious "Biloxi Bacon" poem                                         

at the vegetable bins at the Stop & Shop

on the corner of Plymouth Avenue and Rodman;

Rodman street where the old water-stained bus terminal sat,

the cucumbers were puny; they looked like the offspring of basque peppers.

I asked the young fellow who seemed to have no more

than a fragment of life left to himself when away from his apron, why.

he said "I dunno".

his apron was stained in red like you’d see at the meat-

cutter's station where it’s cooler.

but the kid in the apron said: "it’s the strawberries, not blood"

and I said sarcastically: "well, I hope the strawberries are in better

shape than these puny cucumbers" and he was right. they were.

juicy red and plump with just the right-sized indentations.

for another take on basque peppers locate my poem about Napoleon’s

embarrassing, well-travelled postmortem pickled penis inspired by Sharon Olds'

"The Pope's Penis" and steer clear of the cucumber bin at the Stop & Shop

on the corner of Rodman and Plymouth Avenue.