Immune to peer pressure,

nothing pushes your ripening cycle.

Not the frantic hands of harried housewives,

the ticking recipe card,

or seasonal demand.


You are worth the wait,

for what is more precious

than to feel your flesh loosen

from its snug parka?

What is more delicious than your preference

for being tossed with tears and lemon?


How can anyone resist disrobing

your buttery perfection

and swallowing you whole?


I sleep with your pit under my pillow,

and live to consume and return you

to the underworld.

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