Whether its skin is peeled, or teeth
are plunged into its ripe visage
without any such preparation,
the decision will be hated by someone.
Cutting into the peach would be a mistake:
the public would think it a violent act;
they’d scream monikers like monster.
To grind one into jelly for a sandwich
is out of the question: the choice between
white bread or rye is far too divisive—
there’s no winning that battle. Then
there arises the problem of variety.
Freestones are, by popular opinion,
most pleasing to the eye: indigenous
to America’s cooler regions, creamy red
over pallid skin. But some might take
exception to its tractionless slide
upon the tongue. Clingstones are equally
pretty, though too soft to the touch,
and many Western varietals would be
agreeable if not for their uneven texture.
The best choice is to go hungry,
and let the peaches’ fleshy insides rot,
so appetizing in their topaz bowl.
