A green named for yourself
and no other. The emerald eye
forever paired with that other
fruit. You sit alone, a wee wedge
on the bar's smooth edge.
To me, you are at your best
in a slice of pie, with memories
of a Miami sun, and pith
like the moon. No one will
ever peel you
just eat you
bite by bite.
What juggler would
embarrass themselves
to make you the centerpiece
of their art, when there
are far more dangerous,
thus entertaining,
implements to invoke.
No one will eat your
seeds like they might
a watermelon's.
No one will buy ten
pound bags of you like
they would potatoes.
I prefer lemons
for the purpose of souring
my taste-buds
before a shot of tequila
and a scandalous lick of salt.
Still, how odd and oval,
how ripe and round,
you appear.
How you shine
like a green sun
on a white plate,
as a garnish for tacos.
There is a pun,
but I won't embarrass you with it.
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