speckled and oblong
sitting stationary waiting it's turn
Four of them are joined cowardly laying
Hardly enough space for them all
It's skin a yellowy green
speckled like the breast of a bird
fat and mature calling the hand
to wrap itself around
in the cosmos of anticipation
on the journey to the mouth
purpose couldn't be clearer
yet sometimes they just wait and rot
over ripened in the fruitbowl
bruising and drawing small flies
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