Tuesday, October 10, 2006

Lemon

The squeezer was looking for you. Don't hide in that basket, I'm talking to you! You're dripping all over the closet. The kitchen's lonelier than normal tonight. Leftovers lack the juice to get them going, so it's up to you little one. You might hear that squeaking, crushing sound in your pulp at night. If you roll around in the mud they will still wash you off. Plenty have tired to flee, none have succeeded. You think you can fly if the fork will take a bribe, the spoon will reflect itself in the moon. Average lemons live for only a few weeks. The fruit fly doesn't have much of a life. You're going to sleep with a gun under your pillow. But you have no hands, and the core you have inside you is full of seeds. A kernel of wisdom helps no one. The squeezer doesn't sleep, can't be defeated, it waits on the glass table. If you look through it you can see your own soul frowning back at you, shaking its head.

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