The Fruit

I hang a potato above my head like a lantern

In this cellar

Gritty, stony, crumbling masonry barely holds form

Step down to the hazy black

Turn upon dusty shelves grimy with bottles and such

Benches giving respite to battered boxes and sets of cutlery

I search for a fruit in among the blasted clutter of this pitiful junk store

Probably fermented all to hell, rotted away by now

It was a golden source of A, C, and E and now it is gone

I kept it for the day I would be lost and lonely

Dejected and detested

And now that she's found out about me and my secrets

Well. . .

Couldn't have that, now could we?

After long sweaty hours of toil and dirt labor

The finality of my work has come

Now I seek the Comfort of that gem

Hidden away years past during some bout of acute madness

Thinking the robust suppleness of the thing would wait for the day I would come for it

Now in this hour of need I discover

Nothing, except a dark streaky pile of black mold

Dusty composted mass of dehydrated jelly

Shovel in hand, I emerge the dank recess to meet the authorities

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