spit

We ate the watermelon on the porch,

on splintered steps that threatened our bare feet,

when we had finished lunch - the sun, a scorch

of fire in the sky. We spat the sweet

and sticky bites of juice and seeds as far

into the grass and weeds as our small lips

could purse. As oldest child, I set the bar -

my mouth and stubborn patience could eclipse

the efforts of my sister. Cousins, too.

But on this day, a seed went sailing past

the target I had hit. It went straight through

the roses - hit the birdbath with a splash!

That day, my reign as watermelon king

collapsed. At least the sweetness eased the sting!