come home from the city with two boxes of figs
protect them in their plastic weave and plastic sack on the slush hour train
from elbows and onlookers and couples kissing and fighting
from the dead eyes of rejection and betrayal and commute
they are only fruit.
they don't need to learn
not of the necessarily painful process of being in a human relationship
they have their own relationships to worry about and anyway
it is august.
their lovers are dead and their babies are born
(these are wasps, the sworn enemy of human skin and a natural adhesive in human relationships
--no human sides with a wasp)
and the plastic weave and the plastic sack their moratorium.
respect the dead.
wash them gently.
separate the ripest from the figs for tomorrow.
do not mourn their lovers who you might munch.
but do not take it for granted that you are munching love.