A Trunk Full of Grapefruit

I eat grapefruit
with spoon and steak knife,
like Dad, and his dad,
in the spring, on the farm.

I steak knife my grapefruit
down the equator, around ruby triangles.
I smell grove walks with Grand-pa and -ma,
packing brown paper bags

with avocados they’d never eat,
oranges we’d squeeze at breakfast
and yellow grapefruit
we’d put in the trunk.

I now pick grapefruit off a tree
rooted fifty feet
West of my childhood
window.