Poetry Sunday

It's autumn, and I'm enjoying the taste of wonderful melons of all kinds. I'm sure, though, that most of us can relate to this cautionary tale of what happens when you forget about that nice melon until it's too late ...

Cantaloupe

by Lee Robinson

Friday I sniffed it

in the grocery store, turned it

in my hands, looking

for bruises

in the rough, webbed rind.

My mother's voice—the one

I carry always in my head—

pronounced it fine. Ripe,

but not too soft.

I bagged and bought it,

would have given it to you

for breakfast—this fruit

first grown in Cantalupo, not far

from Rome. I imagined you,

my sleepy emperor, coming

to the table in your towel toga,

digging into the luscious

orange flesh

with a golden spoon,

and afterwards,

reclining, your smile

satisfied,

imperial.

Now I open the trunk of my car

to find the cantaloupe

still there, flattened, sour,

having baked all weekend

in August's oven.

Grieving is useless,

my mother would say,

Just get another.

But why am I so certain

that no other fruit

will ever be as sweet

as that—

the one

I would have cut in half,

scooped the seeds from,

that one I would have given you

on Saturday morning? 

Have a good day and a great weekend, and don't be ... melon-choly.

More thoughts coming.

Bilbo