Heidi Shuler

I am your unctuous side dish-

slippery, pulse-red

cherries, lacquered

grapes, moon-glow pears

and peaches radiant.

Forgive my sloppy affection

and my perky longevity.

I long to be a larger section

of your metal lunch tray, perhaps

the middle square rather than

this tinny triangle corner.

Not in the back, dust coated,

but up front in your cupboard,

longed for, to be consumed soon.

I am, hopelessly

optimistic. You will

want me more than once.

Perhaps if I dollop a nipple

of cool whip on my head

and cozy myself into a cut-glass

footed compote bowl. Scintillating.