solitaire with orange slices

i sit and eat orange slices
scrape pulp out with teeth
half-moon citrus smiles
scrape suck and drain them dry
then chew the juiceless rind

i lick my fingers
then go back
for the last orange
and quarter it

but somehow
still cut enough
for two

 

 

lost among the novembers is the next poem in Migration Patterns.
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