Aubade: Passion Fruit

This is no time to be plummy
When all we have are forks

Don’t tell me the kids ate all the fruit,
Even the long thick bananas from the import mart

Search the drawers if you must. There are no dates, figs, pomegranates
Even the peaches and mangoes have been consumed

Remember how I peeled the ripe kiwi
My tongue over wrinkled fuzz, against yielding flesh

Someone ate the last of the cherries
The ones we were saving to remember Spring

I see now, there is nothing left but black seeds on sheets
The spent remnants of a hurried meal