The plum I’ve been waiting
to ripen
is a bit past ripe; in the fruit bowl,
the bananas speckled brown;
the lemons show no sign of age.

Monday morning I forget the plum,
which now may be a bit too sweet.
Thursday,
I buy fresh produce
on the way home.
I get a call
from my father
about my mother.

Forgotten,
beneath brighter flora,
the plum
in royal colors
sits in the bottom of the fruit bowl.

At home
two Google searches:
what to make with past ripe plums
why don’t I cry when someone dies