With apologies (again) to Philip Larkin

Plucked from the coolness of an icebox shelf
With hours still before the morning light
Whose hand is this? How can I save myself?
You seem to ask.
I take a greedy bite,
Then wipe my mouth. I hope I can explain
Just why I took you for my supper, mate:
I didn’t know when such plums would come again.
Forgive me: sweet and cold, you tasted great.