Pineapple

by Nathaniel edward Briner

Oh, those were the days. 

Standing in the sun, just underneath the balcony of grandmother’s old house, thinking about them on pizza.

Of course, she would call from above and ask me to check the fish tank.

I would ignore her, but grunt in such a way that implied such obedience.

But, pineapple! Alas, it is such a strange topping.

I never understood how it could endure such a strong following of support.

I would think about it for hours upon minutes on the couch in her living room.

Of course, she would call from the kitchen and ask me to check the fish tank.

I would opt to employing my trusty grunt.

Why would Hawaii allow this?

Could it be that they are so desperate for acceptance and recognition?

I would think about it for minutes upon seconds on the trampoline just beside the garden.

Now, she calls me.

“Clifford, come to the table! I made salmon.”

I grunt as I slip back into my shoes and make my way to the dining room.

Suddenly, I remember anchovies.