Eating Watermelon at Knossos
After finding a room near the Venetian
Cathedral meandered toward
bus stop. Being hungry,
thirty, spied
the open door of the truck.
Farmers selling peacock
green melons. Lips moistened—
the sweet flesh
of all rocky Ford melons of my youth.
Homesick no more, I thumped two
or three. Found a dandy. The
price so modest. Marched
away small one in
a pale blue bag.
At oasis of a park
below the old fort wall, dug
in with short blade.
That wonderful
popping sound of exquisite ripeness.
Bending over I brushed
& spat the black eyes of cats on the
ground as juice dripped down
beard, over hands, arms.
No matter, the crimson meat was
delicious. I nearly yelled
my joy.
Somehow managed to cope with
stickiness. Caught bus
to the home of the Minotaur.
Everywhere a vague
disappointment. Too tampered with.
Yet, a strange homecoming. Have I
always known this place?
I ate the other half by the entrance
while bored tourists stared
with eyes that said I was
undignified.
I felt a man. Natural
among the frightened & dangerous civilized.
