The Last Grapefruit

Duane H. Fickeisen
©2024

I ate the last one this morning—
The last from the last bag.
It may have been my last ever.
They were good this year.

Ruby reds—consolation in grief.
She couldn’t eat them—
Some interaction with a drug.
I abstained in solidarity.

I dream of the next crop,
Mid-December to early March.
No point buying out of time
When they surely disappoint.

Each segment excavated
With the toothed spoon
Is a piquant chapter of life—
Blessings, regrets, sorrows.

Senescence marches on.
How many citrus seasons
Are left in my bag?
Ten? Twenty? Two? None?

I’ll miss the sweet tart pink flesh
The bitter seeds, the juice,
For all it was
When my count is done.