Plums

There was a blue glow

With a fluorescent

Soundtrack

And she touched

A green apple

With rosy red cheeks.

She tested its firmness

And then dropped it

Back into the pile like a

Handkerchief falling from

A widow’s hand.

There was a rich, plump

Plum lying atop a mound

Of similar fruits a few orchards

Down.

The wheels creak.

The bread slips one

Second closer to

Expiration.

She taps a long, painted

Fingernail with a metallic

Snap of her gum against

Teeth and transportation.

She plucks the perfect, pleasing

Plum from the mountain and

Rolls it against her

Fingerprints.

It is light in a

Fire that burns for your body

And it’s the figurative abortion

That your neighbor had last month.

She squeezes the fruit

And hums to herself.

It has improved her mood.