-Unless you live in the tropics
Where they grow on trees-
Are store bought as hard as calculus
Piled like some green cairn
On your fools purchase-path
So then set aside to ripen, hopefully
The clock with no hands begins to tick
And as likely as not
When you next attain visiting rights
And press with an expectant finger
They are mush, disappointingly
A midwinter’s slush
And just to be assured of you ill-fated timing
You slice it open, only to be
Eyed by that massive passive seed
That winks at the secret it holds:
Avocados are only perfectly ripe,
Just the moment before they
Go rotten.
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