He woke up hungry
but wasn’t sure what he wanted.
A western omelet
and maple smoked bacon might do.
But his tongue craved something
sweet, maybe fruit.
In the disheveled fridge,
bags of blood red oranges
and nectarines
brought the sun in. And in the rear,
a basket of strawberries silently
waited for the moon.
A dark red sea of apologies
sprinkled with fallen stars.
He bought them a week ago
at the farmer’s market.
Drawn to their innocence
and the taste of love
in one bite.
Perched on the sofa,
he pondered the push and pull
of hearts like taffy.
The way a woman could cry
and stop time as if in a photo frame.
Her lips plump and pitted.
Slowly, he ate less.
The last berry abandoned.
Sour with green wounds.
So, he squashed it.
Carried it quickly to the kitchen
sink where he rinsed the dead
pulp from his fingertips.
deuce coupe 