Plum Crazy (FoodLoose)

Ah, all those plums! The tree was mine --
well, in a sense... and so I thought --
told all my friends -- that all the plums,
those glistening taste bombs of delight,
those shiny-skinned, those waxy hand grenades,
were mine. The basis of my claim was this:
the tree was planted on the day that I was born.
So not to worry if we lost the war,
for none of us would starve. I'd take the plums --
just like the barley loaves and fishes --
and feed whoever came. But there was more:
we had a game. We'd heard about the U-boats
and the North Atlantic run. Seen pictures --
maybe torn from Picture Post -- and found
that we could re-enact the drama with...
Those glorious, golden-red-black-purple plums
were all we'd need. You bit the plum along 
its seam, exposing in your wake -- like
a torpedo makes -- an amber pulp,
grainy, firm and juice filled -- which would squirt.
(The depth charge going overboard, that was!)
And then you'd gently squeeze along its base --
and watch with bated breath until...
the sharp stone surfaced like a wounded submarine.
...................................................

Another oldie (part of)! I happened to be in the process of taking down and dusting an early poem (version 2: on how the German Luftwaffe gate-crashed my sixth birthday party)when Claudia posted her prompt for Poetics over at dVerse Poets. My original poem can be found (here)