Plum Crazy

Fall 1973; an early (undream) poem by Chris Wayan

Autumn. Plums swim the hazy air,       Plum red purple, floating,             Bobbing with breaths                  Of easy air. Inhale a plum, gents, savor that great smoky raisin. Or       Kiss the gentle plum, my love, and waft it my way             With your badminton racquet, like a fat                  Maroon old (loving) soap bubble. With the autumn flu so bad, it is not wise to kiss       Plums promiscuous, without a cautious wash.             But all of us are out (in longwarm coats)                  Kissing them anyway. Our fall: Plum crazy.