A Poem by Donal Mahoney
This morning Len sections his breakfast orange
with the knife he bought in Paris 40 years ago
on his honeymoon. He bought it from a vendor
at a street market selling every kind of knife,
beautiful creations he said he made at home.
Len no longer has that wife but he uses
the knife every morning to cut up his fruit
of the day. It might be a grapefruit, apple,
a melon in season but usually an orange.
Len never thinks about his first wife
but he remembers the blind beggar
sitting on a mat near the stand
pleading for a coin to buy bread
for breakfast as Len and his knife
rushed past to catch up with his wife.