It's time. This is the year I'll dump
my biases against the dense,
moist loaves with neon-colored
bits of candied fruits, spices,
and chopped nuts that I've avoided
since about the time of Sputnik.
Oh, I've had my chances:
Years back when I was a soldier
at Fort Hood, Texas, I took the trip
to the fruitcake gala held each year
at Corsicana. I placed third
in the hilly 10-K run, and the prize
was a hefty fruitcake. My friends
devoured the sticky loaf
with cold beer, but I preferred
nachos, piled high with jalepeños,
to go with my post-race ale.
It will be a threshold moment
like my first kiss (about the time
of the Apollo Moon Walk),
or my first car (about the time
of President Carter),
when I welcome to my lips
a thick slice of spiced fruitcake
with morning tea. I only ask
that it be a fruitcake injected
numerous times in the spleen
(the neon green parts) with ample
shots of rum. My life begins anew
this year as I become a fruitcake
© by Dennis Trujillo.
Used with the author’s permission.