United States of Banana

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It’s the end of the world. I was excited by the whole situation. Well, if everybody is going to die, die hard, shit, but what do I know. Is this an atomic bomb — the end of the world — the end of the millennium? No more fear of being fired — for typos or tardiness — digressions or recessions — and what a way of being fired — bursting into flames — without two weeks’ notice — and without six months of unemployment — and without sick leave, vacation, or comp time — without a word of what was to come — on a glorious morning — when nature ran indifferent to the course of man — there came a point when that sunny sky turned into a hellhole of a night — with papers, computers, windows, bricks, bodies falling, and people running and screaming.

I saw a torso falling — no legs — no head — just a torso. I am redundant because I can’t believe what I saw. I saw a torso falling — no legs — no head — just a torso — tumbling in the air — dressed in a bright white shirt — the shirt of the businessman — tucked in — neatly — under the belt — snuggly fastened — holding up his pants that had no legs. He had hit a steel girder — and he was dead — dead for a ducat, dead — on the floor of Krispy Kreme — with powdered donuts for a head — fresh out of the oven — crispy and round — hot and tasty — and this businessman on the ground was clutching a briefcase in his hand — and on his finger, the wedding band. I suppose he thought his briefcase was his life — or his wife — or that both were one because the briefcase was as tight in hand as the wedding band.

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