It's not a fruit, Goddammit.

Nothing's sacred anymore.
You've spent your evening washing down
three-day-old taco meat
with pre-packaged diced peaches in pear juice
while the droplets pelted pavement
like firebombs in Tokyo.
(We killed more Nips that way
than with the atom bombs combined.)

The homeless woman
slightly out of place
in this hip new town
a stone's throw from Hell
is a mere memory now
swimming somewhere in a wasted Sunday.
You wonder if she found that change
that you denied her, mush-mouthed
or some shelter from the rain
that a jealous God cast down
and beat yourself up
for not making her a sandwich
since you made her what she is.
You could've spared a can of tuna
and pawned off some produce
that'll only go to waste this week
since the Boss is out of town.

"Free 'maters for friends"
the sign should say tomorrow
as you pass them out at work
and try to buy some time.
It's a vegetable if kids take convincing.
It's a fruit if it tastes too good to last
and runs down your chin
like the salt of forbidden seas.
It doesn't matter; "Nature's hardest
hue to hold..."

The meat, the fruit, the cream, and your future
mother-in-law's never-ending tomatoes;
only the grain is missing
but you'll drink that down tomorrow
if it's anything like today--
that is, to say, if the bricks
don't float away overnight.
Forgive me, father. I see you now.