I have a pineapple

I have a pineapple, but not a knife big enough to cut it.
A crush, that need only be so crushing,
a love of the city at night.

People should be explicit,
but then we would all just know.

And maybe knowing would be fine,
but surely it is not fun.

Sometimes I want to write all over the wall.

Stubby pencil

Idle eyes
petal'd pout
wonder what
I think about

Thing is
that you'll only know
if you're blunt and ask.

Incidentally,

When a man outside the Greek diner asked for my doggy bag, I handed it over. He took it, and asked for my friend's box as well.

I bicycled through town this afternoon, along the residential streets near the lake. On one block, at one brick house on the corner, trikes and balls and a pogo stick lay strewn on a green lawn, while a mom took stock of three scattered, smiling kids, playing. Then, on the other side and two houses down, a line of four people streamed in file from the front door. Two of them bore a stretcher that held a figure covered in a dark blue cloth. The person behind them walked mindfully, and pursed her lips when she caught my eyes watching the scene.

Through the window of a hot dog joint, I saw a woman outside and across the street hit the sidewalk, palms first. She seemed to have tripped, and several seconds kept her attached to the walk before anyone approached her.
By now, my eyes had shifted focus from my two friends just across the table from me, and my voice had faltered; they heard me pause the telling of my animated story, and they followed my eyes, turning their heads to look through the window behind them. After more seconds, my anxiety had grown, but the woman pushed herself up, inelegantly, with the help of a female passerby. A crowd had finally gathered, 10 strong and suddenly, to make sure she was all right.

I read recently that in bigger crowds, individuals are less likely to help a person in need because each individual assumes someone else will help.