ode to the man on a first date in coat check coffee who tells his date his favorite fruit is watermelon

and she nods, surprised,

although she probably doesn’t mean it

because watermelon is not a surprising fruit

to love, especially

in the summer when it is warm

and you want wet teeth and drenched tongue

to slip you out of heat like your mother

pulling your checkered dress off over your head

still, you sip the juice

and say watermelon is your favorite fruit

at risk of mockery

even though there is nothing wrong

with obvious love

which is just as good as subtle love,

as there is still bravery in loving

something so completely obvious

because everything needs a hero

and everyone needs to be one

and there is bravery in that

and in telling her that you like to watch movies

because she may not like movies

or melon or how the juice melts

when you cut past the skin

she may not like anything about you

especially your crop-circle hair

or your pipe-tube glasses

still, you try to make space

for a place where the two of you

could thrive—somewhere

where there is sunlight

and a running hose snaked

across the cement watering

fresh sunflowers outside a window

where you sit together

on a porch, the two hands

of yours that aren’t touching

each holding a watermelon slice