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I’m eating a lovely, ripe triangle of watermelon.
–M. L. Sharp
In the act of eating watermelon no one
ever pulled a trigger, spoke harshly
to a child, swatted a butterfly out
of the sky, or told a lie for money.
In the early twenty-first century,
when American political life
had reached a pinnacle of disgrace,
the President ordered lovely, ripe
triangles of watermelon to be served
to all members of congress. Thus did it
transpire that Senators and Congressmen,
Democrats and Republicans, began to pass
the laws that humanized a nation bent
on killing the planet, starving
the poor, turning the elderly invisible,
and maiming the souls of its young.
Dance of the Watermelon asks
that you put your right foot
here, your left foot there,
close your eyes, hum softly,
and levitate approximately
half a foot above the earth.
Arm-flapping is optional,
but whole-body twirling is
discouraged because it is
known to cause an incurable
inclination to compose and
recite poetry inappropriately.
Copyright 2019 David Huddle
David Huddle’s ninth poetry collection, My Surly Heart, will appear from LSU Press later this year.