THE PLUM
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
pea river journal 
If the spaces that exist between realities and our thoughts could be seen by the naked eye, they would look like this poem. This one distilled into me like clear water on parched earth. Loved it.
Vinita, thank you so much! I truly appreciate it. What’s strange, though, is that when this poem came out, the reality of it began to come to life in a different way
Thank you for sharing those words about a strange new reality being born when you wrote this poem, Richard. I look forward to reading more of your work.