not a vegetable,
not a fruit,
what even are you?
how do I even pronounce you?
why make things so
I left you in the crisper drawer
and now you’re not even red,
you’re blue and white—
where do you even belong?
the pantry? the fridge?
the fruit bowl?
I tried you as a juice
one time and couldn’t finish you;
everyone seemed to silently
acknowledge your awfulness but
kept drinking, and drinking,
you were like tomato-flavoured
toothpaste backwash, and
you make my sandwiches
wet, but you’re
excellent in pasta, so
well done on that, at least.

Thanks for checking out my poem.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can also donate some of your hard-earned dollars down below—that’s money to me, for free!


Gabriel Muoio


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