Ode to the Rotting Lemon

"From blossoms
released
by the moonlight,
from an
aroma of exasperated
love,
steeped in fragrance,
yellowness
drifted from the lemon tree,
and from its plantarium
lemons descended to the earth."

Discovery of gold!

The supermarket,

the aisles glowed

with fluorescent tubes;

we opened

two halves

of a wallet,

over-beared plastic

shone 

from the slots

on the sides,

the middle barren

and empty,

lacking bills,

useless, void,

forsaken,

born of my constant, required

spending,

of other groceries,

its yield, feeding us.

Knives

did not slice

anything

in the lemon,

the concealed fruit, hidden,

protecting acid soaked pulp,

mold

formed outside,

destroying,

decaying skins.

So, when you hold

the globe

of an uncut lemon

in a bowl too long,

you ruin

a universe of gold,

a

yellow ball

of acidity,

a molding ball

of the garbage can,

a ray of light that was darkened,

the minute fire extinguished.