Lured by the salted slice
of watermelon, he slips back into the world,
among the oranges & lemons.
It is clear I recognize him.

In the vegetable section
he pauses by melons
singles out a dark green sweet one
like the ones he picked
as a child
off Oklahoma vines.
The ones he spiked open
drizzled on his overalls
& dried to a sugar hardened bib.

His ear presses close
knuckled forefinger
thump, thump
the ripe belly echoes back
somewhere deep inside
a hollow sound
a perfect pick.

I shoulder shoppers & press
closer. His blue-eyed wink
cosmic beyond my reach.
Still, I follow
his leaned right
quick-stepped walk
I have inherited.
Two of us off kilter sailboats
on uneven market floors.
He walks proud
a court of flies trails him.

Florence Murry’s poetry has appeared in Rockhurst Review, Southern California Review, Two Hawks Quarterly, earlier in The Black Buzzard Review (Florence Bohl) and elsewhere.