My Fuji Red Banannanana

She had some fascinating

if incongruous

twins of swing hips.

Her eyes made me think

of opium dens

of fast women without a twitch,

the sweet despair

of gentlemen losers

with their 19th century

handbooks of morality

and witchcraft.

But she only wanted me

for my Fuji Red Bannananana.

It was a portable thing,

I told her,

hoping she'd aspire to a loftier love.

It was something that could be taken off,

plugged in to be recharged.

I told her that it didn't really

come from Fuji.

It was made in Hoboken, N.J.

Invented by an ex-porn star

with calluses

and sagging testacles.

Must have been a bitch.

I awoke in the middle of the night

naked and alone.

My Fuji Red Bannananana was gone

as was the woman with mystic hips.

The radio alarm clock was set on Snooze.

A part of me was gone forever.

But I still had the charger

and the remote.