By Ivonne Arias
Forgive me
I’ve grown suspicious—
though sweet
and though cold,
did you actually
save
icebox plums for breakfast?
Pitted against other fare,
they’re a pale meal.
Veined flesh
of an indecisive hue between yellow and tan
a stone’s throw away
from prune territory.
Maybe their appeals are beyond skin and pulp.
Will ‘yum’—car-loads of flavor—
bud forth between juices
with each mouthful?
It makes for delicious poetry,
but breakfast’s hardly the place.
