Rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb.

So began the book of difficult fruit.

No prompt was needed on stage or off.

Only rhubarb.

No one knew what was being said

but it didn’t seem to matter

when so much cannot be understood

on the stage of life.

So no matter

the lack of clarity,

in its essence.

It was neither fish nor fowl,

fruit or vegetable.

No one could define it,

but no one needed to

in the book of difficult fruit

all one needed to know

from the beginning to the end,

was rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb.



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