Ripe
The plum hangs precariously on its bough thinking to
itself:
“I must be ripe.
A whole season of rapid development
Has made me
Heavy.”
It seems the branch struggles to
hold such a vivacious fruit-
Bursting red-
Waiting to be devoured.
Seasoned and mature
The plum feels eminent decay
She can picture herself-
A gooey scarlet smear on the ground.
But for now
The sun is bright and warm
And she is plump and luscious-
Ready to spread her juice.
The streets are full of beautiful
men
That the plum wouldn’t mind being fondled-
picked- and then voraciously gulped
Down down down by
Ravenous.
This is how the plum knows
Her peak has been reached:
Each swagger gets her going
Every swell of a bicep
The men- the prickly Adam’s apples
The slight bulge in the jeans-
So appealing to her right now
That line of a masculine neck-
Gives her the urge to make herself
into jam in those strong hands.
Death holds nothing on her- she
can’t help it.
It’s the nature of the rich &
ripe plum:
So ready to smush herself
A sticky sweet stain
On one of those
Delicious specimens of maleness
That have been displaying themselves
to her lately.
Oh, she must be ripe.
