Red handled sledgehammers, tossed at a wall, piling up
Walking up the gangplank of an ocean liner
It has a black hull and a white deck
The prow high and proud
It’s moored at dock, waiting to depart
Do you really want to go?
Something small, atomic, is below decks
The nucleus is warped like a half-peeled banana
Electrons spinning around it
Someone is looking for it, a hidden identity
But it is obvious: a being so sad
Asks “where is the banana?”