bad fruit

I knock and press a finger
on the melon
that sits in a large box by
the entrance
to the door of the grocery
store.
a fountain of red
juice squirts out
from the soft shelled skin.
already rotted before june
begins.
I look at my shirt,
and study the pink rorshach
stain.
it's telling me something.
everything
is telling me something.
it's tiring to think this way.
bad fruit, an omen.