Mexican papaya, the kind available in stores
where I live, no taste as good as the ones
that grow in Dad’s back yard–silky soft sweetness,
melt-in-your-mouth. So how come no get
when I was there on one of my semi-annual visits?
The trees produce year-round. Dad no grumble, just
drags the corroded platform ladder to the skinny tree,
stre-e-e-e-tch his eighty-plus-year-old arm,
fingers barely brushing the swollen breasts of fruit,
goes tippy-toe on his rubba slippers, grabs
and plucks ’em off. Dad passed in April at 89.
Still get papaya tress in the back yard.
They all midgets now.