No Longer Green

My sticky fingers lickable and clean
An appetite that never yet has spoiled
The fruit I savour not so very young
It may be bruised but never truly soiled
So pluck the hanging fruits and let’s make jam
My knob of butter spread upon the crust
You’ve generously spooned on to my plate
A smearing of your most delicious must
The sticky plum that popped inside my mouth
The ruby juicing tickles on my tongue
The tartiness delicious sweet and sour
The ripeness of the flesh I’m overcome
The moment I first tasted damascene
A purpling of the boy no longer green


Author: thepoetautist

A Gay poet of fifty odd years who is currently living in Cambodia.

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