My boredom with life

is an exotic fruit

flourishing on the boughs

of unnamed plants

in the middle of

an island paradise.

My boredom

is not a tree in winter,

which grows bare and gray,

completely passionless and cold.

It is bright and explosive –

a kiwi

or a mango;

or a pineapple

with that unpleasant skin

and tangy flavor.

I am passionately bored,

colored green and orange and yellow,

and tasting sweet,

as my expectations of life

falter and die –

digested uneasily

by a stomach unfamiliar with

the flavor of such

disappointment.