Saturday, October 10, 2009

Prize Pumpkin?

Oh super.
She's back.
With all of her futzing and her putzing.
I'm going to plump you up, she says.
Oh, does my big guy have enough water?
Is his soil just right?

Come on, lady.
I know what this is about.
Staring at me dreaming of your little prizes.
Ribbons and what not.
Interviews in the weekly newspaper.
Local woman grows prize pumpkin, it will say.
Just look at her in her little overalls
Prancing about with her pruning shears.
Who does she think I am?
Some sort of gourd whore?
To be put on display like a freshmen sorority chic on a Friday night?
Whatever happened to jackolanterns, pies and bread?
What did I do to be her punkin bitch?
Well, I have news for her, little Miss Cronkite.
I’m no floral slut.
I’m not just some piece of meat like all the others before me.

Sometimes I just want to wrap my long, scratchy tentacles around her soft neck
And then squeeze
And squeeze
And squeeze.
In fact, that’s just what I’ll do.
Yes, that’s it. Just like that.
She’s turning so red now, like my tomato neighbors.
If I squeeze just a little more…
Ah yes. There we go.
Her eyes, popping out of her head
Much like a ripe melon.

Who’s got the prize now, bitch?