I am an eggplant in a field of daisies.
I am the only eggplant around and when the sun
is shining, the people come by and remark, “Why,
an eggplant!” And I turn my side just so,
just so, so they can see how purple and
ripe I am. I am an eggplant in a field
of daisies, borne here of a stray seed
from my mother, carried on the whirling
winds of chance. Then the sun begins to fade
and I am all but black. The daisies whisper
among themselves about my purple skin,
my plump body. Then, I am ashamed, but
I will not show it. I sit proudly as the only
eggplant around for yards. I cannot move myself to
the eggplant patch and nobody will move me. The
sun shines again, and I have turned to show
my good side, my shiny purple coat, my
pride and joy. The daisies prune and fluff up
their petals, and some people pick the daisies
for bouquets, but they never pick me.
I am the only eggplant in a field
of daisies, and in the sun, my skin
shines just so, just so, that it sparkles.
Underneath, I am bruising because nobody
has picked me.