we sat on the front porch,
my six-year-old boy and i,
eating watermelon under a hot sun.
dutifully, i demonstrated
the art of watermelon seed spitting . . .

while practicing,
he became engrossed with the pattern
of seeds that had fallen short
and dribbled down his chin
to the pavement below.

between his sneakered feet,
four white seeds surrounded
a single black seed.
“hey, dad. is that rodney king or what?”
he looked up at me.

one doesn’t expect
metaphors of such magnitude
from a kindergarten graduate.
i put my free arm
around his shoulders.

but then again, it had been
a season of unexpected verdicts.
at least for a forty-year-old white guy,
sitting on his front porch,
eating watermelon.

barkawitz