He can’t believe she doesn’t like radishes.
He loves them,
they make you burp.
His father loved them too.
“I love my burpers,”
his father used to say.
She is perturbed about the burpers.
They remind her of her aunt Penelope.
To her they are just depraved little apples
that make you cry.
She ripely repudiates their presence.
Is the problem of the burpers
The decibels by the vegetable bin
impel us to hyperbole.
We’d hate to see them go their separate ways
over a spat in produce—
he soap-boxing the burper,
in apoplectic loathing of it.
Whatever happens I hope they remember:
does not bed with the burper.
The burper is just a tiny tuber.
Mather Schneider, Arizona, USA