Pink Grapefruit and Toast

by Jason Weaver


He has reached a rather awkward stage,
the wiry-haired woman of middle-age shared,
where his legs have grown taller,
yet…well…his head remains stubbornly smaller
so that his very disproportionate presence, in a sense,
makes them all feel quite-rightfully
uncomfortable.

Furthermore, she bore-on with nary a pause for breath,
his oldest sister, MaryBeth,
an all-but practically-respected amateur local artist
has been due-diligently painting the family’s portraits,
one-by-one, and as to be expected,
had started anon with none other than, of course,
Mother.

And so, amid this captivating situation,
I could not help but wonder
whether this misshapen young man, a blunder of nature for sure,
with his miniature head perched atop a nearly full-figure,
would get his caricature painted dearly soon, too,
or if they merely searched and waited
for his crown to balloon much bigger, say,
to within an almost-normal size,
for the formal sake of the pride and
good family name.

And just then it struck me,
as I’m certain it had all of those concerned in this as well;
what if his form had continued to swell at a quickly pace
but his fickly-obstinate noggin did not,
or worse, in course, even began to shrink
so that in another year or two at most, I’d think,
it would be no grander than a giant pink
grapefruit?

“Well, that’d make for a delicious portrait,”
I offered, with a hunch of candor,
so that the woman,
still talking indecently loudly only now fully proudly
about what she had eaten most recently for brunch,
and balking at my misruly impudence,
picked up her bags with an exasperated gasp
and promptly slid to the next seat over
in the harried airport lounge where we waited.

“How rude,” she said into her phone
and carried on, unabated.


This poem was one of the winners of the dVerse Poets Pub second anniversary contest.

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