Confused

A poem

Poor thing, teetering on the knife edge of definition.

Neither fruit nor vegetable, but representing a squabble between dietitians and botanical intellectuals, sliced and diced into opposing terminologies.

Oh, my random, red darling, my Solanum S. lycopersicum, born of a deadly family, but so innocent yourself — believe me, I am on your side.

I will comfort you as you tremble on the vine awaiting judgement, caress your fragile skin — (zzzick, zzzack, sharpen the blade). Either way, the two of us must agree to disagree.

And you, my darling — I already know your fate wedged between slices of golden toast, accompanied to your destination with crisp-fried slabs of pork and salt, nestled on an emerald bed of greens.

You are delicious, my darling, the one conclusion confirmed — no argument there.