Sublime

It sat square and sour
on a patient red napkin,
lolled on its misshapen side,

and with pudgy fingerprints
pressed to form impressions,
it looked a rather lame lime.

Yet the faces surrounding
the thing seemed impressed.

They noted the way it spoke
with acidic hisses, how soft
its bruises, and though lifeless,
they forgave it for being boring

and swiftly bore it open, hungry
to grasp their tap tapping fingers
around its sweet, emerald core.