Wendy Cope in the next room whispers my favorite poem through my tired ventilation system into the rotating fan in the den, her voice sounds kind of robotic, kind of soothing:
"At lunchtime I bought a huge orange—
The size of it made us all laugh.
I peeled it and shared it with Robert and Dave—
They got quarters and I had a half.
And that orange, it made me so happy,
As ordinary things often do
Just lately. The shopping. A walk in the park.
This is peace and contentment. It’s new.
The rest of the day was quite easy.
I did all the jobs on my list
And enjoyed them and had some time over.
I love you. I’m glad I exist."
Everyday of summer tastes like a ripe orange. I keep my days in a wicker basket on my dining room table. They tend to roll over the sides of their container, and are piled so high they stick to the ceiling and spill over onto the chairs. The scent of hot oranges wafts from my un-air-conditioned third story apartment into the streets below, where side-walk roamers strut in orange sandals and big floppy hats, dawning sundress and beach bags and picnic baskets full of scooped cantaloupe and peaches. They dance like flames atop the pavement, like june-bugs between folding chairs in the porchlight, like sweat in the small of your back on the third week of June.
The sun beams golden orange onto the streets; marmalade and cinnamon line the corner of Gorham and Pinckney, and if I’m not careful I’ll be chin deep in citrus (I get caught up in it all too easily). At dusk, my hands are juicy and sticky with sunlight, and espresso, and pollen & sap, and pistachio ice cream which dripped off the cone onto a frequented park bench; my hands are sticky with life’s orange juice.
“do you think I count the days? there is only one day left, always starting over; it is given to us at dawn and taken away from us at dusk.” – jean-paul satre
Each day it begins again, to satre’s agony and to my ecstasy. Each day I peel an orange, and separate the sections, and eat it slice by slice. Each day is a new orange, uncountable, unforgettable, slipping and sliding between fingers, tongues, and teeth.
My hands are stained orange, and I see yours are too. Each day is a fantastic marigold hue. I’ll hand you your orange, and then you’ll hand me mine. We don’t count the days, we just eat one orange at a time.
Today’s orange tastes like warm moonlight over a field down south, it’s endless, no corners, just a grass sea. I’ll hum the blues, and you’ll come over, and we’ll drink our juice and let it be, while listening to the radio play:
full playlist here (june 19th 91.7 fm wsum @4pm)
Feral in the barrel 