Nora Bradford

I watch Mom cut five slices,
then take the largest and reddest.
When I sink my teeth into solid juice,
the melon squirts its fireworks.
I swallow a seed—
that’s one I won’t spit
into the bowl
beyond the deck railing.
When I finish the delightful redness
I throw the green rind to Hobo,
who waits his turn.
He grabs the crust in his mighty jaws
and runs away
with its sweetness.