itchy poem

by itchingmyknee

I left a peach to ripen on my desk.
It was hard as a cherry pip.
There was a green patch squinting sourly at me
I turned it to face the wall.
The sweet, ripe flesh blushed sweetly.

My peach will bruise easily
I must be gentle when shifting my papers,
Dry and brittle as fallen leaves.
The delicate scent of summer,
Sunny side up,
Drifts across the keyboard.
The black keys depress like juicy blackberries in a basket.