A lemon on the countertop
is a responsibility. Lemon-scented reveries
inspired its purchase; a modest investment,
yet one that now seems rash.
It was so plump, waxed and polished,
bumpers on both ends like a Volkswagen.
When I held it, it endeared itself to me;
I don’t know how. A mystery of color,
as a flower draws the bee, bodily,
right down into it. Yet the lemon
was certainly retouched, like a photograph
signed love, Sunkist.
I scan the cookbooks, every recipe
beyond the likes of me. I think
of simply slicing it to flavor plain water.
At last I concede I’ll end up doing nothing —
traveling, extensively perhaps,
to avoid the whole dilemma — coming home
to find the lemon hard and shrunken,
and bitter, quite impossibly bitter.