Twenty-Five Year Old Man Eating A Grapefruit
Twenty-Five Year Old Man Eating A Grapefruit
by anthony cristofani
A twenty-five year old man stands
in a dark kitchen shivering, eating
a half of grapefruit.
He is eating quickly, common sense like cataracts
on the eyes stuck on the hands
of the glowing clock
that already point past
the general safety zone he regards
as ‘Early’
and sick men should Go
To Bed Early.
But halfway through
the half
he understands the grapefruit
is good, in many ways.
So first he lets the juice
lounge on his tongue within his mouth
and then he moves his tongue and lops
through the word
‘grapefruit.’
But these overtures are not enough
to redeem the profanity
of his first half
of grapefruit half
in the last quarter
of the tenth hour
of the thirtieth day
of the sixteenth month
of his incarceration.
So he makes a poem.
But first he’ll wash
his hands as pens
in prison are hard
to come by.
and he does not want to leave his
greasy with grapefruit
juice.
From Author:
COMMENTARY ON TWENTY FIVE YEAR OLD MAN EATING A GRAPEFRUIT
Does the poet really believe he can fashion a Moment out of any profane circumstance by virtue of a mere poem? A poem is not a palliative for Catholic guilt. Neither should it be a substitute for the tongue and eyes and hands and nose. In any case, if he keeps this habit up, he’s going to grow addicted to mezzo-moments and the poems they bring about. I prescribe for him a week of tropical fruit and penless hands, assuming the poet is not literally incarcerated.
I would have opted for a poem about identity, in this case:
In case anyone asks who I am–
I am a twenty-five year old man standing
in a dark kitchen eating a grapefruit
half.
this flows so well… like a grapefruit might… rolling off some table and down a path. although, at the end (the very end) there’s an abnormal stutter… something… that makes me think a word is missing
and he does not want to leave his
greasy with grapefruit
juice.
his what?
his what?
hands?
hmmmm…