I eat them in the winter sun.
I peel their rinds
and watch sweet run,
their citrus slicks
my wrists.
My teeth gnash
through pulp and pips
as the winter sun
begins to dip
behind grand
evergreens.
Suddenly, dunked
in frigid shade,
my navel flay
smells obscene.
My sticky skin
now sickening.
It’s that same
wicked twist
that comes with
the front-door’s click
after a day of
tangerine
tranquility.
Caught in the act
of indecent
indulgence.
That sudden
discordance
and wistful wishing
one could chop down
those damn trees
and eat their
oranges in peace.
pm poetry 