The 1929 US Ruby Red (of the Redblush variety) has the first grapefruit patent.
Fat businessmen in gray suits,
stock marketed, crashed too soon,
leap, cash drawers falling,
no net below: 1929.
The same year, in summer’s spin,
tropical storms of Ruby Reds
drop from green island trees,
rain rush to the patent office: named,
named like the widows and children
of the men who wanted all the fruit,
certified segments of new life, of death,
of acid pink juice, crisp paper.
The cut is in the edge, the tall storied building,
the plated half of bitterness, the teeth of a serrated spoon,
self-serving plunge, silver-tongued pull,
unsweetened dreams: pink flesh, detached.