There it is,
atop the cold,
marble kitchen counter.
It stands up tall,
vast and colossal.
Bright and yellow deliciousness,
awaiting your arrival.
Rough to the touch,
as your hand exerts
On the spiny edges.
Its rough curves
create small punctures on your fingertips.
You await to open it;
afraid.
Starting at the short stem,
you make a sharp gash;
a rush of juice and sweetness
come out.
So hard on the outside,
yet so soft and delicate
On the inside.
You have cut into
the poem,
and you start to
read
inbetween
the
lines.
The climax is revealed,
as you take a large bite,
and the yellow juice
rolls down your chin.
You take your last bite,
and read your last words.
You cut another slice,
but confidently,
and start the journey over again.
