Crack the skin and underneath,
In glowing rows of ruby teeth,
The pomegranate smiles at you
But I have always lost a few
Of these bright kernels, seeds or pips;
There’s always one at least that slips
Between my fingers to explore
The bench, the bookcase or the floor.
Each teardrop patch of purple stain
Needs cleaning and that’s such a pain
That I’ve worked out a strategy
That works, in general, well for me.
Pomegranates don’t eat whole
So just above a large white bowl
I crank them open till they crack
Along the fault lines in the pack
And as each row of seeds stands tall
I nudge them gently so they fall.
As systems go, I’m not so rash
To say it’s perfect but the dash
The seeds still make for liberty
Is foiled here by gravity –
From this low height, they lack the vim
To bounce their way up past the rim
So they accumulate and soon
The coup de grace is with a spoon.
