The Plum.

The plum awaits to be eaten.
I wonder what the plum thinks about that.

I wonder if the plum thinks about anything,
like
my last boyfriend, whose name was Wilfred,
whose name was foreign to this land.

The plum came from a grocery store in Waterford,
Michigan.

My sister-in-law's mother lived
in a house across the street from the grocery
store where I bought the plum,
old memories flicker against the mind.

The plum is covered in fuzz,
I sit at the kitchen table, pick off the fuzz,
and let it fall into the trash can.

The plum is not entirely eaten.
I open my mouth and take another bite.

Another hour passes. The sun is covered by shadows;
no storm in the distance. No one comes to check
on me. The clock stops ticking.