orange

I roll the orange in
my hand.

squeeze it gently.
I smell it.

hold it to an ear.
it has nothing to say.

the color is bright.
I own nothing of this color.

but it appeals to me
in some
strange way.

orange, I say out loud,
then take a knife

and slice into quarters.
it's sweet in my mouth,

tart upon my tongue.

the life of it dripping
off my chin.