April daylight floods the kitchen window,
where a tangy fruit salad awaits the grubby hands
of peckish children.

A glazed, glossy grape is delicately severed in half—
drizzled with zesty lemon juice—and daintily sprinkled with crumbly brown sugar.

A glistening, honed knife disobeys its fidelity and
rich drops of tinny blood drip
onto the yellow-stained cutting board.

Scrambling, stumbling, slipping,
the grape lands on the scuffed ligneous floor.

The sleek marbled countertop looms up above,
while he lay with a cut in his side, in a pile of dry breadcrumbs,
and a dusty deserted spiderweb.

Feet scuffle (some with socks, some without),
nearly exposing him from his forlorn, hidden home.

Weeks pass—then months.
The dying breaths of summer tease the world with frosty window sills,
and wilted leaves fall like pigmented raindrops. 

Mouthwatering holiday feasts bring family and friends to the table,
where culture and traditions unite, but the dejected grape sits alone.

Days lengthen, and warmth surges in like the tide.
Cordial winds pour over the desolate landscape,
and the red grape shudders in reply.

Booming footsteps echo throughout the vacant kitchen,
with a deafening thump thump thump on the hardwood floor.

Jostled from cobwebs and crispy crumbs,
a careless calloused foot crashes on top of the red fruit,
leaving nothing,
but grape juice.