It occurred to me the other dayas I sat slicing and squeezing lemonson a hot summer afternoon,That the life of an urban lemon from birth to deathis much as I imagine ourson one of my cynical Saturdays.Compressedconcentratedinto one small ball of golden possibilities,We start out bright and plumpWith a spring to us, a resilience to pressure.There’s a scent on our skinIf youth had a smell, this would be it.Confined to the refrigeratorWe slowly hardenTougher and yet more brittle.Our skins turning brownAs though burntIn an honest day’s work in the sun.When we are finally removed, washed,And chopped round our fat middlesWe resign ourselvesTo the next step in our fate.In factIt is almost a relief to be slotted into our final coffin,And as the walls close in on usAnd darkness descends,To have life’s juice wrung from our tired bodies.
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Photo by Jason Abdilla on Unsplash