Mango

“Mangoes, get your fresh mangoes!”
The boy salesman cried out to the world
Like a vendor selling hot dogs at Fenway.
Far from the Green Monster and Pesky’s Pole,
Two lovers walked under the shade of palm trees
Their feet warmed by uncountable grains of sand
That surfed to their rest along the windward coast.

“A mango smoothie will have to wait for later,”
He commented, with grains of sand
Still left to sift between their toes.
The prevailing breeze cooled them
Into a steady pace for a long walk
That could only be measured by not
Arriving at where they don’t need to be.

“Mangoes, get your fresh mangoes!”
The boy salesman cried louder,
A few rows closer in the bleachers
Already past the fans having a pissah
With Southie pals wandering Yawkey Ave
Forgetting the name of the rookie catcher
Called-up from Pawtucket last night.

“Maybe after a burger at Kailua Kona”
She commented, low blood sugar crabs
Beginning to crawl out of hiding
In holes bored through the soft mud
Being licked by the cool blue Pacific
Like a sailor lost at sea wanting to feel
The familiar firmness of any coastline.

“Mangoes, get your fresh Mangoes!”
The boy salesman cried at the end of the row.
He dug into his pocket for two dollars, one
For the mango, one to thank the boy
And watched his retreat back up the steps
A smile wider than the crescent creeping up
Over the horizon to welcome the two lovers.

“Let’s open it and share it now, why not?”
He kissed her on the cheek, pulling her close
No need to wait any longer, the moon smiled.
With a fingernail he gently traced a seam
Around the skin to open the fruit up
Releasing the fresh aroma of juices, then
Slid his finger into the soft flesh to find the seed.

{From the archives, 2014}

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