In response to T.S. Elliot's question in "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

The Peach

Go on,
Seize it.
Brush your thumb
Across its mossy exterior
Savor its weight in your hand, then

Bite.
Without regard to
The watery syrup rushing
Down your chin, neck,
Leaving sugary trails,
Wetting your shirt.

I know you want to.