We used to share a bag of oranges
when it was too hot and muggy in the august afternoons
to do anything but sit in the shade
and try not to pant like dogs
we’d peel the oranges and eat the fruit letting it cool our thirst
hands getting all sticky from juice
and when we were done we’d take the thick dimpled skins and bend them
seeing the fine spray of orange oil mist out and we would spray ourselves
like fashionable ladies
Those summers were long and hot and those winters were long and cold
and time passes by they say like a river

but I never thought a river took you by surprise like that

Because one day
my friend with the orange oil scent and sticky hands was gone
just gone
no one would tell us why
they thought it would upset us
but every time I bend an orange peel
to see the small fine mist
she’s there




About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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2 Responses to Oranges

  1. Angela says:

    The poignancy of the last line is, itself, a beautifully fine mist. Great poem!

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