The Peach

A peach

velveteen and ripened by the herculean sun

its supple skin strained

ready to burst as its syrupy pulp ripples

beneath the surface

A businessman in a crisp suit

each hair immaculately entitled

his face riddled with complacency

he pulls open the sharp glass door

and the peach bursts

a combustion of sweet orange flesh

treacly juice erupts from its fragmented shell

the skin splinters

hardening like chromatic glaciers

"don't make a scene" the businessmen bellows

he uses intense hold hairspray to perfect his smirk

he picks up his straw basket full of fruit jams

he is a very professional man after all