Three Cucumbers

My cucumbers lie on the waiting earth 
hiding under their camouflage of leaves
so ingeniously it's not till late summer
one shows up bloated as a blimp, orange, inedible,
in a word useless, 
that I pluck it and cast it away.

          * * *  

Like that young Japanese soldier, 
commanded to defend an insignificant tropical island.

No one told him the War was over.

He finds a cave, moves in with his stuff, survives on bananas and raw fish, 
patrols his jungle every day 
and worships his spirits each night.

No seasons to keep count of the years.

Until one day a seaplane taxis into the lagoon
and a poor, foolish, useless old man

takes leave of his life
and receives a hero's welcome back home.

           * * *

Like this poetry-writing business:
locked in a room with a flat-screen monitor,

days and a life of nothing else,
until  a useless old man emerges
with blinking eyes and an illegible smile 
to sunlight and his fellow beings again.