It was in the middle of the road
smashed like no one’s business
quizzing, I stared at its splashed juice for long
to take a snap of its orange flesh and white seeds.
I conjured stories about it
the reason it was there
not in someone’s plate
why a passing animal didn’t feed on it.
A man and wife going home from the farm
had a cat fight, clawing at each other
the wife hit him with it in anger
in-turn the man smashed it on the road.
The beggar’s son stole it from the garden
only to be seen by the farmer
who chased him heels on with a stick
in the process threw it at the farmer.
The rich man’s daughter was given it
lovingly she carried it home to cook
until she met her father on the way
who threw it away saying rich don’t feed on it.
The man shopped according to his wife’s list
put the loot on the back of his scooter
and having had it for all meals in a day
decided to smash it making it look like an accident.
Or maybe it happened to be there
just like I happened to be there
at that moment, just by chance
it was no one’s business to conjure stories about it.
[Entered for Thursday Poets Rally Week 34 (December 2-8) 2010.]