Banana Bread

The bananas you bought when you left were ready to be bread before your return. I want to bake them for you, large loaves the size of a lap dog, miniature ones you could eat like a summer pear. The clocks in this kitchen make me anxious—their red tongues clicking at my waiting. The noon church bell shaking its head at my wine rituals. The way I pop the cork when I hear what I want to be your keys rattling at the door. Kitchen speckled with the shedding of a cork shoved back into a bottle too many...

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