Grapefruit 
    My grandfather got up early to section grapefruit.
    I know because I got up quietly to watch.
    He was tall. His hairless shins stuck out
    below his bathrobe, down to leather slippers.
    The house was quiet, sun just up, ticking of
    the grandfather clock tall in the corner.

    The grapefruit were always sectioned just so,
    nestled in clear nubbled bowls used
    for nothing else, with half a maraschino
    centered bleeding slowly into
    soft pale triangles of fruit.
    It was special grapefruit, Indian River,
    not to be had back home.

    Doves cooed outside and the last night-breeze
    Rustled the palms against the eaves.
    He turned to see me, pale light flashing
    off his glasses
    and smiled.

    I remember as I work my knife along the
    membrane separating sections.
    It's dawn. The doves and palms are far away.
    I don't use cherries anymore.
    The clock is digital
    and no one is watching.

                          Ted McMahon