The Man With Rotten Fruit on His Wrist

by Charles Rafferty

Each morning he straps a piece of it on
where someone else would put a watch.
He goes to work and a woman on the train
compliments his cologne. It’s very
citrusy, she says. The sleeve of his overcoat
is hiding the rotten lime, and he accepts
her praise with a smile, a little tip of his chin.
At work he has to be careful not to bump
the fruit against the fabric of his cubicle wall.
People would complain about the sweet-smelling
stains. Already the watermelon juice he dribbled
on the keyboard has made his space bar
unreliable. If it’s a banana, a tiny cloud of fruit flies
sings above his wrist. When someone asks
for the time, he looks at the browned
apple core and says it’s later than he thought,
that there’s no time for tasting like yesterday.
All summer he is followed by wasps. They dance
on the fruit like acrobatic clock hands.
When asked why he straps old fruit to his wrist,
he says simply that ash is impractical,
that fog forgets to linger. Besides, he likes always
being ready to boo a performance,
to plant a small garden at the end of the world.


Charles Rafferty wonders why the rest of the Beatles couldn't get off their stoned asses to play with John on this one.