His cart is made of parts pieced from the enterprise of others
his world wheeled to a city corner frequented by regulars,
the Santuario nuns, the skinny guards with shinny guns,
the tourists spilling from $2 dollar, Panama taxis.
As morning hurries the pineapple man rings his bell,
his signature sound scattering flies, saluting customers.
Each pineapple’s declaration, a giant ornament he sculpts.
Sweet, sweet splendor ready for passing cheeks and tongues.
Naked they stand, each without armor or eyes. The dark pointy
leaves shaped with grooves carved with surgical precision.
The result a parade of Carmen Mirandas. If there was music
the fruit would surely dance.
by: Elena Arosemena