I think this was about the third or fourth poem I posted at the Sphere, five years ago.
On the Decline in Orange Sales
It's true the thumb pressure
is tricky to judge: not too shy
yet not so bold you spray keyboard
or cuffs with sticky mist.
They won't be missed by those
who want an easy time with tangerine,
who strips with a shrug, twirls
in your fist, her single garment
looping to the floor. Instead,
you gouge and cajole, pick and pore
over your prize, consumed,
all conversation stopped. Still,
you will find a certain space when
you peel an orange,
earning the flesh that breaks
against your teeth. The pips
that press and roll around your mouth
will feel like yours to spit.
Last edited by Mark McDonnell; 12-06-2021 at 01:51 PM.