Each morning my son and I pass
an orchard on the way
to his preschool
and this morning, he asks
what type of forest is that?
and I tell him
it’s an orchard, a fruit farm
and he declares:
Farms. Have. Animals.
I tell him some farms have fruit
but again, he insists
that this cannot be true.
And because I know
better, I ask, who grows the fruit
if not the farmer?
And my son responds,
the fruit guy grows the fruit.
And believing I have him cornered
I declare, a fruit guy
is a type of farmer,
but my son retorts—
the fruit guy
is a watermelon named Mr. Banana.
I am silent
imagining
a humpty-dumpty-type
watermelon
with an unfortunate surname
waking up
next to his watermelon wife
donning overalls
and straw hat
before heading out into his fields
with basket
and stepladder.
And because this
is a reality worth escaping into—
I let Mr. Banana live.