solemn as lemons
fresh off the bush
a ½-dozen or so
huddled together
in a tupperware fruitbowl
no bruise nor blemish
to be found
unwilling to yield
their highly-prized nectar
to the moistened blade
that waits nearby
yet powerless to
ade in their own cause
and not in the interests
of those whose thirst
supercedes their conscience
shudder would they
– if they could –
when faced with the inevitable outcome
as they are halved in preparation
for the pink plastic juicer
which’s gored scores
of citrus fruit in its day
squatting patiently
yet expectant
only inches away