a fruit once plucked will never ripen

The tub was small, deep
and round, rather than
long and coffin like.
The water, pulled from
a cistern then sun
warmed, hid our legs below
the murky surface.

Upstairs, our parents smoked
joints
on the futon listening to
records. A narrow
window stretched from the
roof to the basement,
connecting
us. We shared a view
of an old gnarled

apricot tree. In
the green tiled tub our
toes turned from raisins
to prunes as scarlet
and fucia flamed,
a fire of sunset.
The fruit, still hard, green,
sour, hung silhouetted
in twilight ripening—
waiting to be eaten.