Gros Michel Poem by Richard Theze

Your skin,
Colour akin
To palest sunlight,
Smooth, yet flawed,
Mishandled,
Small bruises showed,
As black as night.
 
Your body,
Fragrant, soft,
Spoke, of gentle aging,
Slender, curved,
Invited
Old memories,
Once ripe for picking.
 
You waited,
Only to be bought,
Exposed.
Your flesh unclothed
Tasted,
Enjoyed again
By those disposed.

And satisfied,
The shell that was you,
Left, empty
Thrown aside,
Useless now,
Your exit,
His entry.