By CL Bledsoe
He’d cool it in the fridge after
buying it from the glaring old
man’s roadside stand, halve
the cantaloupe, scoop the seeds
with a spoon, tossing them out
the door into the ditch the sink
and washing machine drained into,
douse one half with pepper, and eat
it to the green bone of the rind.
That was breakfast, along with
coffee, or, after he decided
that made him too jittery, Gatorade.
He’d read a Tom Clancy novel
in the kitchen until the sun was up,
and leave a rind in the sink so clean,
fruit flies wouldn’t touch it.
