Bacon fruit

Resting by the tree,

The wind blowing cooly.

Perhaps it’s a good place to stop.

Legs are tired, bruised shoulders,

From the haul.

I look up, as the crispy fruit dangles.

are these ripe?

Surly it is a tad early...

Is this tree someone’s property?

I can’t control it.

I stand up again, and the pain leaves me,

Replaced by hunger.

I reach out and take one.

It feels coarse,

Safe to eat then,

well, in moderation.

Salty and fat, and crispy.

The fruit resists ,then yealds.

I die here, my stomach in misery

After so much, that I inhaled.

This is why fruit picking

Should be done in groups.

But no matter, and it serves me right;

The seeds will find

A rich, bloated corpse

To grow in.